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IrU 


THE 

POETICAL    WORKS 

OF 

PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY, 

EDITED 

BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

WITH    A    MEMOIR, 
BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


Lui  non  trov"io,  ma  suoi  santi  vestigi 

Tutti  rivolti  alia  superna  strada 

Veggio,  lunge  da'  laghi  averni  e  stigi. — Petbaeca. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOLUME   I. 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,    BB 0  W  X    A X  D    C  0  M  P  A  X  Y . 

SHEPARD,    CLAKK    AND    BROWU. 
M.DCCC.LVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

Little,  Brown  and  Company, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE  : 

STEREOTYPED      AND     PRINTED      BT 

H.    0.    HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


TO 

PERCY  FLORENCE  SHELLEY, 

THE   POETICAL    WORKS 
OF    HIS    ILLUSTRIOUS    FATHER 

ARE  DEDICATED, 
BY   HIS   AFFECTIONATE   MOTHER, 

MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT  SHELLEY. 


LOXDOX. 

20th  January,  1839. 


2230590 


CONTENTS. 

VOL  I. 

Page 

Preface 5 

Memoir  of  Shelley 13 

To  Harriet  Westbrooke r. 33 

Queen  Mab 34 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley 99 

Alastor;  or,  the  Spirit  of  Solitude 107 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley 131 

The  Revolt  of  Islam.     A  Poem  in  twelve  Cantos.  . . .   133 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley 321 

Prometheus   Unbound.    A   Lyrical   Drama,  in  four 

Acts . 325 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley 426 

The  Cenci ;  A  Traajedv,  in  five  Acts 433 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley 539 

Hellas ;  A  Lyrical  Drama 545 

Notes 589 


PREFACE. 

BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

Obstacles  have  long  existed  to  my  presenting 
the  public  with  a  perfect  edition  of  Shelley's  Poems. 
These  being  at  last  happily  removed,  I  hasten  to 
fulfil  an  important  duty. — that  of  giving  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  sublime  genius  to  the  world,  with  all 
the  correctness  possible,  and  of,  at  the  same  time, 
detailing  the  history  of  those  productions,  as  they 
sprung,  living  and  wann,  from  his  heart  and  brain. 
I  abstain  from  any  remark  on  the  occurrences  of 
his  private  life  ;  except  inasmuch  as  the  passions 
which  they  engendered,  inspired  his  poetry.  This 
is  not  the  time  to  relate  the  truth ;  and  I  should 
reject  any  colouring  of  the  truth.  No  account  of 
these  events  has  ever  been  given  at  all  approaching 
reality  in  their  details,  either  as  regards  himself  or 
others ;  nor  shall  I  further  allude  to  them  than  to 
remark,  that  the  errors  of  action,  committed  by  a 
man  as  noble  and  generous  as  Shelley,  may,  as  far 
as  he  only  is  concerned,  be  fearlessly  avowed,  by 
those  who  loved  him,  in  the  firm  conviction,  that 
were  they  judged  impartially,  his  character  would 
stand  in  fairer  and  brighter  fight  than  that  of  any 
contemporary.  Whatever  faults  he  had,  ought  to 
find  extenuation  among  his  fellows,  since  they 
proved  him  to  be  human  ;  without  them,  the  exalted 
nature  of  his  soul  would  have  raised  him  into  some- 
thing divirie. 

The  qualities  that  struck  any  one  newly  intro- 
duced to  Shelley,  were,  first,  a  gentle  and  cordial 


b  PREFACE. 

goodness  that  animated  his  intercourse  with  warm 
affection,  and  helpful  sympathy.  The  other,  the 
eagerness  and  ardour  with  which  he  was  attached 
to  the  cause  of  human  happiness  and  improvement ; 
and  the  fervent  eloquence  with  which  he  discussed 
such  subjects.  His  conversation  was  marked  by  its 
happy  abundance,  and  the  beautiful  language  in 
which  he  clothed  his  poetic^  ideas  and  philosophical 
notions.  To  defecate  life  of  its  misery  and  its  evil, 
was  the  ruling  passion  of  his  soul :  he  dedicated  to 
it  every  power  of  his  mind,  every  pulsation  of  his 
heart.  He  looked  on  political  freedom  as  the  direct 
agent  to  effect  the  happiness  of  mankind ;  and  thus 
any  new-sprung  hope  of  liberty  inspired  a  joy  and 
an  exultation  more  intense  and  wild  than  he  could 
have  felt  for  any  personal  advantage.  Those  who 
have  never  experienced  the  workings  of  passion  on 
general  and  unselfish  subjects  cannot  understand 
this ;  and  it  must  be  difficult  of  comprehension  to 
the  younger  generation  rising  around,  since  they 
cannot  remember  the  scorn  and  hatred  with  which 
the  partisans  of  reform  were  regarded  some  few 
years  ago,  nor  the  persecutions  to  which  they  were 
exposed.  He  had  been  from  youth  the  victim 
of  the  state  of  feeling  inspired  by  the  reaction  of 
the  French  Revolution  ;  and  believing  firmly  in 
the  justice  and  excellence  of  his  views,  it  cannot  be 
wondered  that  a  nature  as  sensitive,  as  impetuous, 
and  as  generous  as  his,  should  put  its  whole  force 
into  the  attempt  to  alleviate  for  others  the  evils  of 
those  systems  from  which  he  had  himself  suffered. 
Many  advantages  attended  his  birth ;  he  spurned 
them  all  when  balanced  with  what  he  considered 
his  duties.  He  was  generous  to  imprudence, 
devoted  to  heroism. 

These  characteristics  breathe  throughout  his 
poetry.  The  struggle  for  human  weal ;  the  resolu- 
tion firm  to  martyrdom ;  the  impetuous  pursuit ; 
the  glad  triumph  in  good ;  the  determination  not 


PREFACE.  7 

to  despair ; — such  were  the  features  that  marked 
those  of  his  works  which  he  regarded  with  most 
complacency,  as  sustained  by  a  lofty  subject  and 
useful  aim. 

In  addition  to  these,  his  poems  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes,  —  the  purely  imaginative,  and 
those  which  sprung  from  the  emotions  of  his  heart. 
Among  the  former  may  be  classed  "  The  Witch  of 
Atlas,"  "  Adonais,"  and  his  latest  composition,  left 
imperfect,  "  The  Triumph  of  Life."  In  the  first  of 
these  particularly,  he  gave  the  reins  to  his  fancy, 
and  luxuriated  in  every  idea  as  it  rose  ;  in  all,  there 
is  that  sense  of  mystery  which  formed  an  essential 
portion  of  his  perception  of  life — a  clinging  to  the 
subtler,  inner  spirit,  rather  than  to  the  outward 
form — a  curious  and  metaphysical  anatomy  of 
human  passion  and  perception. 

The  second  class  is,  of  course,  the  more  popular, 
as  appealing  at  once  to  emotions  common  to  us  all ; 
some  of  these  rest  on  the  passion  of  love  ;  others  on 
grief  and  despondency;  others  on  the  sentiments 
inspired  by  natural  objects.  Shelley's  conception 
of  love  was  exalted,  absorbing,  allied  to  all  that  is 
purest  and  noblest  in  our  nature,  and  warmed  by 
earnest  passion  ;  such  it  appears  when  he  gave  it  a 
voice  in  verse.  Yet  he  was  usually  averse  to  ex^ 
pressing  these  feelings,  except  when  highly  ideal- 
ized ;  and  many  of  his  more  beautiful  effusions  he 
had  cast  aside,  unfinished,  and  they  were  never 
seen  by  me  till  after  I  had  lost  him.  Others,  as,  for 
instance,  "  Rosalind  and  Helen,"  and  "  Lines  writ- 
ten among  the  Euganean  Hills,"  I  found  among  his 
papers  by  chance  ;  and  with  some  difficulty  urged 
him  to  complete  them.  There  are  others,  such  as 
the  «  Ode  to  the  Sky  Lark,"  and  "  The  Cloud," 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  many  critics,  bear  a  purer 
poetical  stamp  than  any  other  of  his  productions. 
They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  listening 
to  the  carolling  of  the  bird,  aloft  in  the  azure  sky 


8  PREFACE. 

of  Italy;    or  marking  tlie  cloud  as  it  sped  BCTOt 
the  heavens,  while  he  iloated  in   his  boat  on  the 
Thames. 

No  poet  was  ever  warmed  by  a  more  genuine 
and  unforced  inspiration.  His  extreme  sensibility 
gave  the  intensity  of  passion  to  his  intellectual  pur- 
suits; and  rendered  his  mind  keenly  alive  to  every 
perception  of  outward  objects,  as  well  as  to  his  in- 
ternal sensations.  Such  a  gift  is  among  the  >;nl 
vicissitudes  of  human  life,  the  disappointments  we 
meet,  and  the  galling  sense  of  our  own  mistakes 
and  errors,  fraught  with  pain  ;  to  escape  from  such, 
he  delivered  up  his  soul  to  poetry,  and  felt  happy 
when  he  sheltered  himself  from  the  influence  of 
human  sympathies,  in  the  wildest  regions  of  fancy. 
His  imagination  has  been  termed  too  brilliant,  his 
thoughts  too  subtle.  He  loved  to  idealize  reality ; 
and  this  is  a  taste  shared  by  few.  We  are  willing 
to  have  our  passing  whims  exalted  into- passions, 
for  this  gratifies  our  vanity  ;  but  few  of  us  under- 
stand or  sympathize  with  the  endeavour  to  ally  the 
love  of  abstract  beauty,  and  adoration  of  abstract 
good,  the  to  ayatibv  nal  rb  nalbv  of  the  Socratic  phi- 
losophers, with  our  sympathies  with  our  kind.  In  this 
Shelley  resembled  Plato  ;  both  taking  more  delight 
in  the  abstract  and  the  ideal,  than  in  the  special 
and  tangible.  This  did  not  result  from  imitation  ; 
for  it  was  not  till  Shelley  resided  in  Italy  that  he 
made  Plato  his  study ;  he  then  translated  his  Sym- 
posium and  his  Ion ;  and  the  English  language 
boasts  of  no  more  brilliant  composition,  than  Plato's 
Praise  of  Love,  translated  by  Shelley.  To  return 
to  his  own  poetry.  The  luxury  of  imagination. 
which  sought  nothing  beyond  itself,  as  a  child  bur- 
thens itself  with  spring  flowers,  thinking  of  no  use 
beyond  the  enjoyment  of  gathering  them,  often 
showed  itself  in  his  verses :  they  will  be  only  appre- 
ciated by  minds  which  have  resemblance  to  his 
own ;    and   the    mystic    subtlety   of  many   of  his 


PREFACE.  9 

thoughts  will  share  the  same  fate.  The  metaphys- 
ical strain  that  characterizes  much  of  what  he  has 
written,  was.  indeed,  the  portion  of  his  works  to 
which,  apart  from  those  whose  scope  was  to  awaken 
mankind  to  aspirations  for  what  he  considered  the 
true  and  good,  he  was  himself  particularly  attached. 
There  is  much,  however,  that  speaks  to  the  many. 
When  he  would  consent  to  dismiss  these  huntings 
after  the  obscure,  which,  entwined  with  his  nature 
as  the}-  were,  he  did  with  difficulty,  no  poet  ever 
expressed  in  sweeter,  more  heart-reaching,  or  more 
passionate  verse,  the  gentler  or  more  forcible  emo- 
tions of  the  soul. 

A  wise  friend  once  wrote  to  Shelley,  "  You  are 
still  very  young,  and  in  certain  essential  respects 
you  do  not  yet  sufficiently  perceive  that  you  are 
so."  It  is  seldom  that  the  young  know  what 
youth  is,  till  they  have  got  beyond  its  period  ;  and 
time  was  not  given  him  to  attain  this  knowledge. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  there  is  the  stamp 
of  such  inexperience  on  all  he  wrote ;  he  had  not 
completed  his  nine-and-twentieth  year  when  he 
died.  The  calm  of  middle  life  did  not  add  the  seal 
of  the  virtues  which  adorn  maturity  to  those  gen- 
erated by  the  vehement  spirit  of  youth.  Through 
fife  also  he  was  a  martyr  to  ill  health,  and  con- 
stant pain  wound  up  his  nerves  to  a  pitch  of 
susceptibility  that  rendered  his  views  of  life  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  a  man  in  the  enjovment  of 
healthy  sensations.  Perfectly  gentle  and  forbear- 
ing in  manner,  he  suffered  a  good  deal  of  internal 
irritability,  or  rather  excitement,  and  his  fortitude 
to  bear  was  almost  always  on  the  stretch;  and 
thus,  during  a  short  life,  had  gone  through  more 
experience  of  sensation,  than  many  whose  ex- 
istence is  protracted.  "  If  I  die  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  on  the  eve  of  his  unanticipated  death,  "I 
have  lived  to  be  older  than  my  father."  The 
weight    of   thought    and    feeling    burdened    him 


10  PREFACE. 

heavily;  you  read  his  sufferings  in  his  attenuated 
frame,  while  you  perceived  the  mastery  he  held 

over  them  in  his  animated  countenance  and  bril- 
liant eyes. 

He  died,  and  the  world  showed  no  outward 
sign ;  but  his  influence  over  mankind,  though 
slow  in  growth,  is  fast  augmenting,  and  in  the 
ameliorations  that  have  taken  place  in  the  political 
state  of  his  country,  we  may  trace  in  part  the 
operation  of  his  arduous  struggles.  His  spirit 
gathers  peace  in  its  new  state  from  the  sense 
that,  though  late,  his  exertions  were  not  made  in 
vain,  and  in  the  progress  of  the  liberty  he  so 
fondly  loved. 

He  died,  and  his  place  among  those  who  knew 
him  intimately,  has  never  been  filled  up.  He 
walked  beside  them  like  a  spirit  of  good  to  comfort 
and  benefit — to  enlighten  the  darkness  of  life 
with  irradiations  of  genius,  to  cheer  it  with  his 
sympathy  and  love.  Any  one,  once  attached  to 
Shelley,  must  feel  all  other  affections,  however 
true  and  fond,  as  wasted  on  barren  soil  in  com- 
parison. It  is  our  best  consolation  to  know  that 
such  a  pure-minded  and  exalted  being  was  once 
among  us,  and  now  exists  where  we  hope  one 
day  to  join  him  ; — although  the  intolerant,  in  their 
blindness,  poured  down  anathemas,  the  Spirit  of 
Good,  who  can  judge  the  heart,  never  rejected 
him. 

In  the  notes  appended  to  the  poems,  I  have 
endeavoured  to  narrate  the  origin  and  history  of 
each.  The  loss  of  nearly  all  letters  and  papers 
which  refer  to  his  early  life,  renders  the  execution 
more  imperfect  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been.  I  have,  however,  the  liveliest  recollection 
of  all  that  was  done  and  said  during  the  period 
of  my  knowing  him.  Every  impression  is  as 
clear  as  if  stamped  yesterday,  and  I  have  no 
apprehension  of  any  mistake  in  my  statements  as 


PREFACE.  11 

far  as  they  go.  In  other  respects,  I  am,  indeed, 
incompetent ;  but  I  feel  the  importance  of  the 
task,  and  regard  it  as  my  most  sacred  duty.  I 
endeavour  to  fulfil  it  in  a  manner  he  would  himself 
approve ;  and  hope  iu  this  publication  to  lay  the 
first  stone  of  a  monument  due  to  Shelley's  genius, 
his  sufferings,  and  his  virtues  : 

S'al  seguir  son  tarda, 
Forse  awerra  che  '1  bel  nome  gentile 
Consacrero  con  questa  stanca  penna. 


12  POSTSCRIPT. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


In  revising  this  new  edition,  and  carefully  con- 
sulting Shelley's  scattered  and  confused  papers,  I 
found  a  few  fragments  which  had  hitherto  escaped 
me,  and  was  enabled  to  complete  a  few  poems 
hitherto  left  unfinished.  What  at  one  time  escapes 
the  searching  eye,  dimmed  by  its  own  earnestness, 
becomes  clear  at  a  future  period.  By  the  aid  of  a 
friend  I  also  present  some  poems  complete  and 
correct,  which  hitherto  have  been  defaced  by 
various  mistakes  and  omissions.  It  was  suggested 
that  the  Poem  "  To  the  Queen  of  my  Heart,"  was 
falsely  attributed  to  Shelley.  I  certainly  find  no 
trace  of  it  among  his  papers,  and  as  those  of  his 
intimate  friends  whom  I  have  consulted  never 
heard  of  it,  I  omit  it. 

Two  Poems  are  added  of  some  length,  "  Swell- 
foot  the  Tyrant,"  and  "  Peter  Bell  the  Third."  I 
have  mentioned  the  circumstances  under  which 
they  were  written  in  the  notes ;  and  need  only 
add,  that  they  are  conceived  in  a  very  different 
spirit  from  Shelley's  usual  compositions.  They 
are  specimens  of  the  burlesque  and  fanciful ;  but 
although  they  adopt  a  familiar  style  and  homely 
imagery,  there  shine  through  the  radiance  of  the 
poet's  imagination  the  earnest  views  and  opinions 
of  the  politician  and  the  moralist. 

Putney,  November  6,  1839. 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY. 


BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

The  notes  of  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  the  present  edition 
of  the  poems,  contain  so  much  biographical  matter, 
that  it  will  only  be  necessary  to  put  the  reader 
in  possession  of  such  facts  as  she  has  omitted,  either 
from  a  natural  reserve  or  a  very  pardonable 
delicacy. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  born  on  the  4th  of 
August,  1792,  at  Field  Place,  in  Sussex.  He  was 
the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Timothy  Shelley,  Baronet, 
of  Castle  Goring.  His  family  was  an  ancient 
one,  and,  while  one  branch  of  it  represented  the 
blood  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  he  himself  was  de- 
scended from  the  Sackvilles,  a  name  inseparably 
associated  with  the  dawn  of  the  Elizabethan  litera- 
ture. 

There  was  also  blood  of  the  New  World  in 
Shelley's  veins.  His  paternal  great-grandfather, 
Timothy,  had  emigrated  to  America,  settling  at 
Newark  in  New  Jersey,  where  he  married  an 
American  wife,  and  where  Shelley's  grandfather, 
Bysshe,  was  born.  Bysshe  carried  the  family 
fortunes  back  to  England,  succeeded,  by  means 
of  a  handsome  person  and  fine  manners,  in  marry- 
ing successively  two  heiresses,  became  a  baronet, 
and  lived  to  a  great  age,  an  eccentric  and  miser. 
Having  built  Castle  Goring  at  a  cost  of  eighty 
thousand  pounds,  he  spent  the  last  twenty  years 
of  his  life  in  a  small  cottage,   meanly  furnished, 


* 


14  MUMOIR   OF    SHELL): V. 

and  frequented  a  tap-room  at  Horsham,  drinking 
with  the  lowest  people  of  the  place,  a  habit, 
Captain  Medwin  suggests,  acquired  in  America. 
But,  as  he  brought  his  fine  manners  from  that 
country,  we  may  conscientiously  believe  better 
things.  When  he  died  at  last,  (a  very  tedious 
at  last  it  seems  to  have  been  to  his  eldest  son 
Timothy,)  ten  thousand  pounds  were  found  se- 
creted in  different  hiding-places  in  his  clothes, 
books,  and  chamber.  Timothy,  (the  poet's  father,) 
after  keeping  the  legitimate  number  of  terms  at 
University  College,  Oxford,  made  the  grand  tour, 
and  returned,  an  accomplished  disciple  of  Rouche- 
foucauld  and  Chesterfield.  Of  the  influence  of 
his  example  and  precepts  upon  his  son  we  may 
judge  from  an  anecdote  told  by  Medwin,  who 
says,  "  he  once  told  his  son,  Percy  Bysshe,  in  my 
presence,  that  he  would  provide  for  as  many 
natural  children  as  he  chose  to  get,  but  that  he 
would  never  forgive  his  making  a  mesalliance" 

Under  the  roof  of  this  estimable  parent  and 
mentor,  Shelley  acquired  the  first  rudiments  of 
Latin  and  Greek,  in  company  with  his  two  elder 
sisters,  from  Mr.  Edwards,  the  clergyman  of 
Warnham,  who  is  described  as  "  a  good  old  man 
of  very  limited  intellects."  In  his  tenth  year  he 
was  removed  to  Sion  House,  Brentford,  where 
Medwin  remembers  him  as  a  shy,  sensitive,  lonely 
boy,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  sun,  aloof  from 
the  boisterous  sports  of  his  schoolmates. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  sent  to  Eton.  He 
remained  there  three  years,  and,  during  that  time, 
gave  signs  of  that  love  of  freedom  which  always 
characterized  him,  by  forming  a  conspiracy  against 
the  fagging  system.  According  to  Leigh  Hunt, 
this  was  so  far  successful  as  to  procure  immunity 
for  himself,  at  least,  from  oppression.  He  alludes 
to  it,  and  to  the  earliest  promptings  of  his  literary 
ambition,  in  the   dedication   to  "  The  Revolt  of 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  15 

Islam."  That  he  even  now  dreamed  of  achieving 
fame  as  an  author  is  evident  from  his  having 
already  written  two  romances,  "  St.  Irvyne,  or  the 
Rosicrucian,"  and  "  Zastrozzi."  He  also  gave  an 
early  proof  of  a  certain  rashness  and  eagerness  of 
temperament  which  he  never  wholly  conquered, 
by  publishing  these  immaturities.  Nothing  is 
remembered  of  them  now,  but  that  they  were 
prodigal  of  melodramatic  blue- fire.  He  was  in 
his  fifteenth  year  when  they  were  written.  This 
was  in  1809,  and  in  the  same  year  he  became 
acquainted  with  his  first  love,  his  cousin,  Miss 
Harriet  Grove,  who  contributed  some  chapters  to 
"  Zastrozzi." 

At  Sion  House,  his  favorite  books  were  Mrs. 
RadclhTe's  novels  and  some  others  of  the  Minerva 
Press  School,  especially  one  called  "  Zofloya  the 
Moor."  At  Eton  he  became  a  good  Latin  scholar, 
and  a  tolerable  Greek  one.  Here  began  his  love 
of  Plato  and  of  boating,  the  one  destined  to  influ- 
ence his  whole  life  as  an  author  and  a  man,  and 
the  other  to  cause  his  untimely  death. 

From  Eton,  he  was  removed,  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, (in  October,  1810,)  to  University  College, 
Oxford.  Here  his  radical  opinions  on  politics, 
society,  and  religion  seem  to  have  become  more 
firmly  rooted.  He  could  not  reconcile  for  himself 
the  discordance  between  theory  and  practice,  and 
somewhat  too  impatiently  rejected  as  false  what- 
ever was  necessarily  inadequate  from  the  imperfect 
nature  of  man.  But  in  all  the  intellectual  vaga- 
ries of  Shelley's  youth,  we  cannot  but  recognize  a 
rare  sincerity  and  disinterestedness.  If  he  insisted 
that  other  men  should  reconcile  the  theoretic  with 
the  practical,  he  did  not  shrink  from  it  himself. 
This  is  illustrated  by  an  anecdote  told  of  him  by 
Hunt.  No  date  is  given,  but  it  may  be  referred 
probablv  enough  to  the  latter  part  of  his  Oxford 
life. 


' 


It)  MEMOIfi    01    SHELLEY. 

"  Shelley  was  present  at  a  ball  where  he  was  a 
person  of  some  importance.  Numerous  village 
ladies  were  there,  old  and  young;  and  none  of  the 
passions  were  absent  that  are  aeeustomed  to  glance 
in  the  eyes,  and  gossip  in  the  tongues,  of  similar 
gatherings  together  of  talk  and  dress.  In  the  front 
were  seated  the  rank  and  fashion  of  the  place. 
The  virtues  diminished  as  the  seats  went  back- 
ward ;  and  at  the  back  of  all,  unspoken  to,  but  not 
unheeded,  sat  blushing  a  damsel  who  had  been 
seduced.  It  is  not  stated  by  whom,  probably  by 
some  well-dressed  gentleman  in  the  room,  who 
thought  himself  entitled,  nevertheless,  to  the  con- 
versation of  the  most  flourishing  ladies  present, 
and  who  naturally  thought  so  because  he  had  it. 
That  sort  of  thing  happens  every  day.  It  was 
expected  that  the  young  squire  would  take  out  one 
of  these  ladies  to  dance.  What  is  the  consterna- 
tion when  they  see  him  making  his  way  to  the 
back  benches,  and  handing  forth,  with  an  air  of 
consolation  and  tenderness,  the  object  of  all  the 
virtuous  scorn  of  the  room !  the  person  whom  that 
other  gentleman,  wrong  as  he  had  been  to  her, 
and  "  wicked "  as  the  ladies  might  have  allowed 
him  to  be  toward  the  fair  sex  in  general,  would 
have  shrunk  from  touching  ! " 

While  at  Oxford  he  seems  to  have  had  some 
dreams  of  combining  a  life  of  politics  with  that  of 
literature,  as  would  appear  by  the  following  letter 
to  Lei«zh  Hunt,  then  editor  of  the  "  Examiner." 


"  University  College,  Oxford,  March  2,  1811. 
"  Sir, — Permit  me,  although  a  stranger,  to  offer  mv 
sincerest  congratulations  on  the  occasion  of  that  triumph 
so  highly  to  be  prized  by  men  of  liberality;  permit  me 
also  to  submit  to  your  consideration,  as  to  one  of  the 
most  fearless  enlighteners  of  the  public  mind  at  the 
present  time,  a  scheme  of  mutual  safety  and  mutual 
indemnification  for  men  of  public  spirit  and  principle, 
which,  if  carried  into  effect,  would  evidently  be  produc- 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  17 

tive  of  incalculable  advantages;  of  the  scheme  the 
inclosed  is  an  address  to  the  public,  the  proposal  for  a 
meeting,  and  which  shall  be  modified  according  to  your 
judgment,  if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  consider  the 
point.  The  ultimate  intention  of  my  aim  is  to  induce  a 
meeting  of  such  enlightened  unprejudiced  members  of 
the  community,  whose  independent  principles  expose 
them  to  evils  which  might  thus  become  alleviated,  and 
to  form  a  methodical  society  which  should  be  organized 
so  as  to  resist  that  coalition  of  the  enemies  of  liberty 
which  at  present  renders  any  expression  of  opinion  on 
matters  of  policy  dangerous  to  individuals.  It  has  been 
for  the  want  of  societies  of  this  nature  that  corruption 
has  attained  the  height  at  which  we  now  behold  it,  nor 
can  any  of  us  bear  in  mind  the  very  great  influence 
which  some  years  since  was  gained  by  (  ?  ),  without 
considering  that  a  society  of  equal  extent  might  establish 
rational  liberty  on  as  firm  a  basis  as  that  which  would 
have  supported  the  visionary  schemes  of  a  completely 
equalized  community.  Although  perfectly  unacquainted 
(privately)  with  you,  I  address  you  as  a  common  friend 
of  Liberty,  thinking  that  in  cases  of  this  urgency  and 
importance,  that  etiquette  ought  not  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  usefulness.  My  father  is  in  Parliament,  and  on  attain- 
ing 21, 1  shall,  in  all  probability,  fill  his  vacant  seat.  On 
account  of  the  responsibility  to  which  my  residence  at 
this  University  subjects  me,  I  of  course  dare  not  pub- 
licly to  avow  all  that  I  think,  but  the  time  will  come 
when  I  hope  that  my  every  endeavour,  inefficient  as  they 
may  be,  will  be  directed  to  the  advancement  of  liberty. 
"  I  remain,  Sir,  your  most 

"P.  B.  Shelley." 


During  his  University  life,  his  favorite  amuse- 
ments were  chemistry,  microscopic  investigations, 
and  boating.  He  also  went  through  the  usual  drill 
in  logic,  but  with  some  rather  unusual  and  uncom- 
fortable results.  To  a  youth  of  Shelley's  impetuous 
temperament,  resolved  to  subject  every  custom, 
prejudice,  or  idea,  which  he  lound  concreted  in 
practice,  to  the  ideal  tests  of  abstract  truth  and 
justice,  the  syllogism  was  a  weapon  which  he  was 
quite  as  likely  to  seize  by  the  blade  as  the  handle. 
Taking  for  his  premises  all  the  vulgar  notions  of 

vol.  i.  2 


18  MEMOIR   OF   BHELLEY. 

God's  attributes  that  he  could  lay  hold  of,  be  wrote 
and  published  in  conjunction  with  a  college  friend, 
Mr.  Hogg,  an  anonymous  pamphlet  to  demonstrate 
•the  non-existence  of  any  deity  at  all.  He  had 
already  rendered  himself  somewhat  obnoxious  by 
printing  a  volume  of  verses  under  the  title  of 
"  The  Posthumous  Works  of  Mrs.  Margarel  Nich- 
olson," who,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  tin-  poor 
insane  woman  that  attempted  the  life  of  George  1 1 1. 
The  name  of  his  new  indiscretion  was  the  "  Neces- 
sity of  Atheism."  The  government  of  his  college 
were  not  slow  in  constructing  a  syllogism  quite  as 
unanswerable  as  his  own,  to  this  effect.  The 
society  of  an  avowed  atheist  cannot  but  lie  inju- 
rious to  the  morals  of  the  young  gentlemen  of  this 
college :  but  P.  B.  Shelley  has  avowed  himself  an 
atheist:  then  it  is  fit  that  he  be  expelled.  And 
expelled  he  accordingly  was.  Perhaps  a  milder 
mode  of  treatment  and  less  heroic  remedies  might 
have  been  more  efficacious  in  effecting  a  cure.  As 
it  was,  Shelley  went  up  to  London  full  of  the 
dangerous  exhilaration  of  a  successful  martyr,  and 
carried  about  with  him  the  certificate  of  his  expul- 
sion, as  St.  Lawrence  does  his  gridiron,  at  once 
the  evidence  of  his  admission  to  the  Church  tri- 
umphant, and  of  the  manner  of  it.  The  immediate 
consequences  of  his  expulsion  were  a  quarrel  with 
his  father,  (followed  by  a  hollow  reconcilement.) 
and  the  breaking  off  of  his  love  affair  Avith  Miss 
Grove. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  in  London  he  read 
Godwin's  "  Political  Justice,"  and  was  thereby 
confirmed  in  his  theories  on  the  subject  of  politics. 
But  Shelley's  liberalism  must  be  distinguished  from 
the  kind  professed  by  Lord  Byron.  It  was  with 
him  a  matter  of  nature  as  well  as  conviction,  and 
he  cheerfully  gave  up  for  its  sake  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment and  a  large  income.  Byron's  was  an  affair 
of  whim,  cost  him  nothing,  and  the  contradiction 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  19 

between  his  principles  and  his  position,  enhanced 
that  interest  in  his  personal  character,  which  it  was 
the  object  of  his  whole  life  to  increase.  To  a  peer 
all  things  are  possible  in  England,  and  if  Byron 
made  a  show  of  sacrificing  his  social  prestige,  it 
was  to  himself  that  the  altar  was  built,  and  his  own 
nostrils  that  inhaled  the  incense,  while  Shelley 
enthusiastically  made  a  holocaust  of  self,  of  posi- 
tion, of  prospects,  to  the  principles  which  he 
believed  to  be  right. 

At  this  period  of  his  life,  Shelley  had  a  habit  of 
writing  letters  to  any  person  that  interested  him. 
Among  others,  he  opened  a  correspondence  with 
Miss  Browne,  (afterward  Mrs.  Hemans,)  which 
continued  some  time,  till  it  was  broken  off  by  her 
mother,  who  probably  did  not  relish  some  of  the 
young  poet's  theories  in  regard  to  domestic  life. 
In  the  same  way  his  intercourse  began  with  Miss 
Harriet  Westbrooke,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  a 
retired  coffee-house  keeper.  To  letters  succeeded 
stolen  interviews,  (the  young  lady  was  at  a 
boarding-school,)  and  to  interviews,  Gretna  Green. 
This  was  in  1811. 

Hitherto,  probably,  Sir  Timothy  had  looked 
upon  the  dogmatic  excesses  of  his  son  as  only 
another  form  of  sowing  those  wild  oats  from  which 
commonly  is  reaped  in  due  time  a  crop  of  tame 
respectability  and  decorum.  Theories,  as  long  as 
they  were  abstract,  did  not  disturb  him,  for  he 
knew  that  they  might  be,  and  commonly  were", 
turned  out  of  doors,  whenever  society  as  it  was 
offered  greater  inducements.  But  now  that  his 
bod  had  legally  indented  himself  to  a  theory  for 
life,  it  was  quite  another  and  more  serious  affair. 
Tin-  chance  of  being  grandfather  to  a  coffee-house 
keepers  grandson,  who,  in  spite  of  him,  might  be 
the  future  master  of  Castle  Goring,  was  probably 
not  a  pleasant  one.  Hitherto,  in  his  treatment  of 
his  son,  he  had  neglected  to  practise  on  the  obvious 


20  MEMOIR   01    SHELLEY. 

truth  that  the  opinions  of  the  young  resemble  cer- 
tain animals  which  need  only  to  be  sufficiently 
urged  in  one  direetion  to  bolt  madly  in  the  other, 
and  that  their  extravagances  have  this  likeness  of 
virtue  that  they  grow  all  the  more  for  the  weight 
that  is  laid  upon  them.  The  baronet  resolved  to 
punish  what  he  could  not  cure,  and  accordingly 
cut  his  son  off  from  all  paternal  assistance.  The 
bride's  father,  however,  was  likely  to  view  the 
matter  in  another  light,  (it  would  doubtless  be  no 
great  cross  to  him  to  see  his  grandson  a  baronet,) 
and  he  allowed  the  young  couple  an  annuity  of 
two  hundred  pounds.  * 

It  is  a  little  odd,  considering  Shelley's  opinions 
about  marriage,  that  he  should  have  been  married 
twice  to  his  first  wife.  After  their  return  from 
Gretna  Green,  the  ceremony  was  performed  again 
at  Cuckfield  in  Sussex.  For  some  time,  he  seems 
to  have  led  a  rather  migratory  life.  We  find  him 
for  a  time  at  Keswick,  where  he  became  acquainted 
with  Southey,  for  whose  poetry  he  had  at  this  time 
an  extravagant  admiration ;  then  in  Dublin,  pro- 
jecting histories  of  Ireland,  which  result  in  a  small 
political  pamphlet,  now  irrecoverable  ;  then  in  the 
Isle  of  Man,  as  a  kind  of  Alsatia,  sacred  from  the 
foot  of  bailiff;  and  last  in  Wales,  whence  he  ap- 
pears to  have  come  to  London  again. 

The  results  of  this  marriage  were  two  children, 
a  daughter  and  a  son,  and  a  separation.  The  cir- 
cumstances of  the  disagreement  between  Shelley 
and  his  Avife,  have  never  been  cleared  up.  Per- 
haps it  would  have  been  quite  as  noble  if  Shelley 
had  continued  the  martyr  of  a  youthful  misstep 
instead  of  making  his  wife  the  victim  of  notions 

*  Captain  Medwin  doubts  this,  and  quotes  a  letter  of  Shelley's 
in  confirmation  of  his  doubt.  The  letter  proves,  at  least,  thnt 
the  father-in-law  sent  him  something,  but  this  would  seem  to 
have  been  enough  to  support  him,  for  it  does  not  appear  that  he 
was  able  to  raise  any  money  on  his  expectations.  Meanwhile  he 
was  able  to  live  for  two  years  in  some  way  or  other. 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  21 

about  marriage  in  which  there  is  no  evidence  that 
she  shared.  However  this  may  be,  he  made  him- 
self so  acceptable  to  Miss  Godwin,  daughter  of  the 
novelist  and  Mary  Wblstonecraft,  that  she  con- 
sented to  elope  with  him  to  Switzerland,  in  July, 
1814.  They  crossed  to  Calais  in  an  open  boat, 
not  without  danger  of  being  lost,  A  Miss  Clare- 
niont  went  with  them.  She  also  was  a  deaconess 
in  the  Church  of  the  Elective  Affinities,  and  (Lord 
Byron  having  joined  the  party)  became  the  mother 
of  the  Allegra,  mentioned  in  his  will.  This,  how- 
ever, seems  to  have  been  on  a  second  visit  to  the 
Continent,  the  fugitives  having  in  the  meanwhile 
returned  for  a  short  time  to  England.  This  last 
continental  tour  occupied  but  a  few  months,  during 
which  the  northern  part  of  Italy  was  visited. 

Shelley  came  back  to  England  again,  bringing 
with  him  a  child  by  his  new  connection,  and  went 
to  Bath.  But  now  was  to  come  the  terrible  recoil 
which  almost  inevitably  results  from  an  attempt  to 
bend  an  entire  social  system  out  of  the  way  of  the 
passions  of  a  single  man.  However  the  brain  may 
philosophize,  the  heart  remains  loyal  to  its  tradi- 
tions, and  though  Mrs.  Shelley  may  have  been 
captivated  with  the  doctrine  of  attractions  while  it 
drew  her  husband  to  her,  she  was  not  prepared  for 
the  more  liberal  application  of  it  which  drew  him 
away.  Xo  theorizing  can  sweeten  desertion  ;  and 
the  unhappy  woman,  disenchanted  of  the  dream, 
and  forsaken  by  the  substance,  sought  shelter  in 
death. 

The  lovers  of  Shelley  as  a  man  and  a  poet  have 
done  what  they  could  to  palliate  his  conduct  in 
this  matter.  But  a  question  of  morals,  as  between 
man  and  society,  cannot  be  reduced  to  any  indi- 
vidual standard  however  exalted.  Our  partiality 
for  the  man  only  heightens  our  detestation  of  the 
error.  The  greater  Shelley's  genius,  the  nobler 
his  character  and  impulses,  so  much  the  more  start- 


22  MEMOIR    <♦]•'    SHELLEY. 

ling  is  the  warning.  If  we  make  our  own  inclina- 
tions the  measure  of  what  is  right,  we  must  be  the 
sterner  in  curbing  them.  A  woman's  beaii  a  too 
delicate  a  thing  to  serve  as  a  fulcrum  for  the  lever 
with  which  a  man  would  overturn  any  system, 
however  conventional.  The  misery  of  the  elective- 
affinity  scheme  is  that  men  are  not  chemical  sub- 
stances, and  that  in  nine  cases  in  ten  the  force  of 
the  attraction  works  more  constantly  and  lastingly 
upon  the  woman  than  the  man.  There  is  no 
stronger  argument  against  it  than  the  Memoirs  of 
Mary  Wolstoneeraft.  The  Mormon  polygamy  is 
nothing  more  than  a  plant  from  the  same  evil  seed 
sown  in  a  baser  soil,  and  is  an  attempt  to  com- 
promise between  the  higher  instincts  of  mankind, 
organized  in  their  institutions,  and  the  bestial  pro- 
pensities of  sensualized  individuals. 

The  suicide  of  Shelley's  wife  took  place  on  the 
10th  of  November,  1816,  and  shortly  afterward  he 
married  Miss  Godwin,  at  her  father's  solicitation, 
and  took  up  his  abode  at  Great  Marlow  in  Bucking- 
hamshire. His  means  of  support  were  ample,  as 
he  had  succeeded  to  some  property  in  his  own 
right,  which  yielded  a  yearly  income  of  one  thou- 
sand pounds.  During  his  residence  here  the  cus- 
tody of  his  two  children  by  his  first  wife  was  taken 
away  from  him  by  a  decision  of  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor Eldon,  on  the  ground  of  atheistical  principles 
attributed  to  their  father.*  Shelley  felt  this  deeply, 
and  all  his  life.     His  poem  of  "  Queen  Mab,"  a 

*  We  are  unable  to  see  that  Shelley  suffered  any  great  amount 
of  hardship  or  injustice  in  this  matter.  He  had  first  deserted 
the  children  himself, — one  of  them  yet  unborn, — and  then  left 
them  in  the  keeping  and  under  the  influence  of  a  woman  whom 
he  did  not  think  a  fit  companion  for  himself.  One  would  rather 
be  inclined  to  say  that  his  patent  in  them  was  void  for  nun-user. 
The  depth  and  ardor  of  his  attachment  to  them  may  be  ques- 
tioned under  the  circumstances.  At  least,  it  is  natural  that 
their  maternal  relatives  should  not  wish  to  have  them  brought 
up  under  the  influence  of  principles  that  had  resulted  so  disas- 
trously. 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  23 

juvenile  production,  published  without  his  consent, 
was  made  the  ground  of  this  decision.  His  opin- 
ions upon  marriage  were  also  brought  up  against 
him.  The  children  were  put  under  the  care  of  a 
clergyman  of  the  church  of  England.  Leigh  Hunt 
says :  "  Shelley's  manner  of  life  suffered  greatly 
in  its  repute  from  this  circumstance.  He  was  said 
to  be  keeping  a  seraglio  at  Marlow ;  and  his  friends 
partook  of  the  scandal.  This  keeper  of  a  seraglio, 
who,  in  fact,  was  extremely  difficult  to  please  in 
such  matters,  and  who  had  no  idea  of  love  uncon- 
nected with  sentiment,  passed  his  days  like  a 
hermit.  He  rose  early  in  the  morning,  walked  and 
read  before  breakfast,  took  that  meal  sparingly, 
wrote  and  studied  the  greater  part  of  the  morning, 
walked  and  read  again,  dined  on  vegetables,  (for 
he  took  neither  meat  nor  wine,)  conversed  with 
his  friends,  (to  whom  his  house  was  ever  open,) 
again  walked  out,  and  usually  finished  with  reading 
to  his  wife  till  ten  o'clock,  when  he  went  to  bed. 
This  was  his  daily  existence.  His  book  was  gen- 
erally Plato  or  Homer,  or  one  of  the  Greek 
tragedians,  or  the  Bible,  in  which  last  he  took  a 
great,  though  peculiar,  and  often  admiring  in- 
terest." 

At  Great  Marlow,  Hunt  says,  "  he  wras  a  blessing 
to  the  poor.  His  charity,  though  liberal,  was  not 
weak.  He  inquired  personally  into  the  circum- 
stances of  his  petitioners ;  visited  the  sick  in  their 
beds,  (for  he  had  gone  the  rounds  of  the  hospitals 
on  purpose  to  be  able  to  practise  on  occasion,*) 
and  kept  a  regular  list  of  industrious  poor,  whom 
he  assisted  with  small  sums  to  make  up  their  ac- 
counts." 

It  was  here  he  published  "  A  Proposal  for  put- 
ting Reform  to  the  Vote  throughout  the  Country," 

*  Med  win  says  that  he  began  the  study  of  medicine  with  a 
view  to  earning  his  support  by  the  practise  of  that  profession. 


24  MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY. 

and  offered  to  give  a  tenth  part  of  his  income  for 
a  year  toward  the  advancement  of  the  project. 
His  generosity  was  always  remarkable  and  unos- 
tentatious. Out  of  his  thousand  pounds  a  year,  he 
bestowed  a  pension  of  one  hundred  upon  a  needy 
literary  man,  and  at  one  time  raised  by  great  effort 
fourteen  hundred  pounds  to  extricate  Leigh  Hunt 
from  debt. 

The  following  characteristic  anecdotes,  relating 
to  this  part  of  his  life  are  told  by  Hunt,  in  his  auto- 
biography. 

"  To  return  to  Hampstead.  Shelley  often  came  there 
to  see  me,  sometimes  to  stop  for  several  days.  He  de- 
lighted in  the  natural  broken  ground,  and  in  the  fresh  air 
of  the  place,  especially  when  the  wind  set  in  from  the 
northwest,  which  used  to  give  him  an  intoxication  of 
animal  spirits.  Here  also  he  swam  his  paper  boats  on  the 
ponds,  and  delighted  to  play  with  my  children,  particu- 
larly with  my  eldest  boy,  the  seriousness  of  whose  imagi- 
nation, and  his  susceptibility  of  a  ''grim  "  impression,  (a 
favorite  epithet  of  Shelley's",)  highly  interested  him.  He 
would  play  at '  frightful  creatures  '  with  him.  from  which 
the  other  would  snatch  '  a  fearful  joy,'  only  begging  him 
occasionally  "not  to  do  the  horn,"  which  was  a  way  that 
Shelley  had  of  screwing  up  his  hair  in  front,  to  imitate  a 
weapon  of  that  sort.  This  was  the  boy  (now  a  man  of 
forty,  and  himself  a  fine  writer)  to  whom  Lamb  took  such 
a  liking  on  similar  accounts,  and  addressed  some  charm- 
ing verses  as  his  '  favorite  child.'  I  have  already  men- 
tioned him  during  my  imprisonment. 

"  As  an  instance  of  Shelley's  playfulness  when  he  was 
in  good  spirits,  he  was  once  going  to  town  with  me  in  the 
Hampstead  stage,  when  our  only  companion  was  an  old 
lady,  who  sat  silent  and  still  after  the  English  fashion. 
Shelley  was  fond  of  quoting  a  passage  from  "  Richard 
the  Second,"  in  the  commencement  of  which  the  king,  in 
the  indulgence  of  his  misery,  exclaims, 

'  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings.' 

Shelley,  who  had  been  moved  into  the  ebullition  by  some- 
thing objectionable  which  he  thought  he  saw  in  the  face 
of  our  companion,  startled  her  into  a  look  of  the  most 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  25 

ludicrous  astonishment,  by  suddenly  calling  this  passage 
to  mind,  and,  in  his  enthusiastic  tone  of  voice,  addressing 
me-  by  name  with  the  first  two  lines.  '  Hunt !  '  he  ex- 
claimed. 

'  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground. 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings.' 


The  old  lady  looked  on  the  coach-floor,  as  if  expecting  to 
see  us  take  our  seats  accordingly. 

"  But  here  follows  a  graver  and  more  characteristic 
anecdote.  Shelley  was  not  only  anxious  for  the  good 
of  mankind  in  general.  We  have  seen  what  he  proposed 
on  the  subject  of  Keform  in  Parliament,  and  he  was 
always  very  desirous  of  the  national  welfare.  It  was  a 
moot  point  "when  he  entered  your  room,  whether  he  would 
begin  with  some  half-pleasant,  half-pensive  joke,  or 
quote  something  Greek,  or  ask  some  question  about  pub- 
lic affairs.  He  once  came  upon  me  at  Hampstead,  when 
I  had  not  seen  him  for  some  time ;  and  after  grasping  my 
hands  into  both  his,  in  his  usual  fervent  manner,  he  sat 
down  and  looked  at  me  very  earnestly,  with  a  deep, 
though  not  melancholy  interest  in  his  face.  We  were 
sitting  with  our  knees  to  the  fire,  to  which  we  had  been 
getting  nearer  and  nearer,  in  the  comfort  of  finding  our- 
selves together.  The  pleasure  of  seeing  him  was  my  only 
feeling  at  the  moment;  and  the  air  of  domesticity  about 
us  was  so  complete,  that  1  thought  he  was  going  to  speak 
of  some  family  matter,  either  his  or  my  own,  when  he 
asked  me,  at  the  close  of  an  intensity  of  pause,  what  was 
'  the  amount  of  the  National  Debt !  ' 

"  I  used  to  rally  him  on  the  apparent  inconsequentiality 
of  his  manner  upon  those  occasions,  and  he  was  always 
ready  to  carry  on  the  jest,  because  he  said  that  my  laugh- 
ter did  not  hinder  my  being  in  earnest. 

"  But  here  follows  a  crowning  anecdote,  into  which  I 
shall  close  my  recollections  of  him  at  this  period.  We 
shall  meet  him  again  in  Italy,  and  there,  alas!  I  shall 
have  to  relate  events  graver  still. 

"  I  was  returning  home  one  night  to  Hampstead  after 
the  opera.  As  I  approached  the  door,  I  heard  strange 
and  alarming  shrieks,  mixed  with  the  voice  of  a  man. 
The  next  day,  it  was  reported  by  the  gossips  that  Mr. 
Shelley,  no  Christian,  (for  it  was  he  who  was  there,)  had 
brought  some  "  very  strange  female  "  into  the  house,  no 
better,  of  course,  than  she  ought  to  be.  The  real  Chris- 
tian had  puzzled  them.     Shelley,  in  coming  to  our  house 


26  MEMOIR   OF   SHELLEY. 

that  night,  had  found  a  woman  lying  near  the  top  of  the 

hill  in  fits.  It  was  a  fierce  winter  night,  with  snow  upon 
the  ground;  and  winter  loses  nothing  of  its  fierceness  at 
Hampstead.    My  Mend,  always  the  promptest  as  well  as 

most  pitying  on  these  occasions,  knocked  at  the  first  hi 
he  could*  reach,  in  order  to  have  the  woman  taken  in.  The 
invariable  answer  was  that  they  could  not  do  it.  He 
asked  for  an  outhouse  to  put  her  in,  while  he  went  for  a 
doctor.  Impossible !  In  vain  he  assured  them  that  she 
was  no  impostor.  They  would  not  dispute  the  point  with 
him;  but  doors  were  closed,  and  windows  were  shut 
down.  Had  he  lit  upon  worthy  Mr.  Park,  the  philo- 
logist, he  would  assuredly  have  come,  in  spite  of  his  Cal- 
vinism. But  he  lived  too  far  off.  Had  he  lit  upon  my 
friend,  Armitage  Brown,  who  lived  on  another  side  of 
the  heath;  or  on  his  friend  and  neighbor,  Dilke;  they 
would,  either  of  them,  have  jumped  up  from  amidst  their 
books  or  their  bedclothes,  and  have  gone  out  with  him. 
But  the  paucity  of  Christians  is  astonishing,  considering 
the  number  of  them.  Time  flies ;  the  poor  woman  is  in 
convulsions;  her  son,  a  young  man,  lamenting  over  her. 
At  last,  my  friend  sees  a  carriage  driving  up  to  a  house  at 
a  little  distance.  The  knock  is  given;  the  warm  door 
opens ;  servants  and  lights  pour  forth.  Now,  thought  he, 
is  the  time.  He  puts  on  his  best  address,  which  anybody 
might  recognize  for  that  of  the  highest  gentleman  as  well 
as  of  an  interesting  individual,  and  plants  himself  in  the 
way  of  an  elderly  person,  who  is  stepping  out  of  the  car- 
riage with  his  family.  He  tells  his  story.  They  only  press 
On  the  faster.  "Will  you  go  and  see  her?"  "No,  sir; 
there's  no  necessity  for  that  sort  of  thing,  depend  on  it. 
Impostors  swarm  everywhere;  the  thing  cannot  be  done; 
sir,  your  conduct  is  extraordinary."  "  Sir,"  cried  Shelley, 
assuming  a  very  different  manner,  and  forcing  the  flour- 
ishing householder  to  stop  out  of  astonishment,  "  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  your  conduct  is  not  extraordinary;  and 
if  my  own  seems  to  amaze  you,  I  will  tell  you  something 
which  may  amaze  you  a  little  more,  and  I  hope  will 
frighten  you.  It  is  such  men  as  you  who  madden  the 
spirits  and  the  patience  of  the  poor  and  wretched;  and 
if  ever  a  convulsion  comes  in  this  country,  (which  is  very 
probable,)  recollect  what  I  tell  you:  you  will  have  your 
house,  that  you  refuse  to  put  the  miserable  woman  into, 
burnt  over  your  head."  "  God  bless  me,  sir!  Dear  me, 
sir!"  exclaimed  the  poor  frightened  man,  and  fluttered 
into  his  mansion.  The  woman  was  then  brought  to  our 
house,  which  was   at  some  distance,  and  down  a  bleak 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  27* 

path ;  and  Shelley  and  her  son  were  obliged  to  hold  her 
till  the  doctor  could  arrive.  It  appeared  that  she  had 
been  attending  this  son  in  London,  on  a  criminal  charge 
made  against  him,  the  agitation  of  which  had  thrown  her 
into  the  fits  on  her  return.  The  doctor  said  that  she 
would  have  perished,  had  she  lain  there  a  short  time 
longer.  The  next  day  my  friend  sent  mother  and  son 
comfortably  home  to  Hendon,  where  they  were  known, 
and  whence  they  returned  him  thanks  full"  of  gratitude." 


Of  Shelley's  return  to  Italy,  and  his  manner  of 
life  in  that  country,  the  reader  will  find  a  full 
account  in  the  notes  of  Mrs.  Shelley,  appended  to 
the  different  poems  which  he  wrote  there.  The 
best  narrative  of  his  death  is  that  of  Hunt,  from 
whom  we  extract  what  follows.  Hunt  had  come  to 
Italy  at  Shelley's  invitation,  and  the  friends  had 
met  at  Pisa. 


"  In  a  day  <Jr  two  Shelley  took  leave  of  us  to  return  to 
Lerici  for  the  rest  of  the"  season,  meaning,  however,  to 
see  us  more  than  once  in  the  interval.  I  spent  one  de- 
lightful afternoon  with  him,  wandering  about  Pisa,  and 
visiting  the  cathedral.  On  the  night  of  the  same  day  he 
took  a  postchaise  for  Leghorn,  intending  next  morning  to 
sign  his  will  in  that  city,  and  then  depart  with  his  friend, 
Captain  Williams,  for  "Lerici.  I  intreated  him,  if  the 
weather  was  violent,  not  to  give  way  to  his  daring  spirit 
and  venture  to  sea.  He  promised  me  he  would  not :  and 
it  seems  that  he  did  set  off  later  than  he  otherwise  would 
have  done,  and  apparently  at  a  more  favorable  moment. 
I  never  beheld  him  more. 

"  The  superstitious  might  discern  something  strange 
in  that  connection  of  his  last  will  and  testament  with  his 
departure;  but  the  will,  it  seems,  was  not  to  be  found. 
The  same  night  there  was  a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder 
and  lightning,  which  made  us  very  anxious:  but  we 
hoped  our  friend  had  arrived  before"  then.  When  Tre- 
launy  came  to  Pisa,  and  told  us  he  was  missing,  I  under- 
went one  of  the  sensations  which  we  read  of  in  books, 
but  seldom  experience ;  I  was  tongue-tied  with  horror. 

"A  dreadful  interval  took  place  of  more  than  a  week, 
during  which,  every  inquiry  and  every  fond  hope  were 
exhausted.     At  the  end  of"  that  period  our  worst  fears 


28  MEMOIR   OF    SHELLEY. 

were  confirmed.  A  body  had  been  washed  on  shore, 
near  the  town  of  Via  Reggio,  which,  by  the  dress  and 
stature,  was  known  to  be  our  friend's.  Keats's  last 
volume  also  (the  "•Lamia,"  &c.)  was  found  open  in  the 
jacket  pocket.  He  had  probably  been  reading  it,  when 
surprised  by  the  storm.  It  was  my  copy.  1  had  told 
him  to  keep  it  till  he  gave  it  me  again  with  his  own  bands. 
So  1  would  not  have  it  from  any  other.  It  was  burned 
with  his  remains.  The  body  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Williams, 
was  found  near  a  tower,  four  miles  distant  from  its  com- 
panion. That  of  the  other  third  party  in  the  boat, 
Charles  Vivian,  the  seaman,  was  not  discovered  till 
nearly  three  weeks  afterward. 

"  The  remains  of  Shelley  and  Mr.  Williams  were 
burned,  after  the  good  ancient  fashion,  and  gathered  into 
coffers.  Those  of  Mr.  Williams  were  subsequently  taken 
to  England.  Shelley's  were  interred  at  Rome,"  in  the 
Protestant  burial-ground,  the  place  which  he  had  so 
touchingly  described  in  recording  its  reception  of  Keats. 
The  ceremony  of  the  burning  was  alike  beautiful  and 
distressing,  frelawney,  who  had  been  the  chief  person 
concerned  in  ascertaining  the  fate  of  his  friends,  com- 
pleted his  kindness  by  taking  the  most  active  part  on 
this  last  mournful  occasion.  He  and  his  friend  Shenley 
were  first  upon  the  ground,  attended  by  proper  assistants. 
Lord  Byron  and  myself  arrived  shortly  afterward.  His 
lordship  got  out  of  his  carriage,  but  wandered  away  from 
the  spectacle,  and  did  not  see  it.  I  remained  inside  the 
carriage,  now  looking  on,  now  drawing  back  with  feelings 
that  were  not  to  be  witnessed. 

"  None  of  the  mourners,  however,  refused  themselves 
the  little  comfort  of  supposing,  that  lovers  of  books  and 
antiquity,  like  Shelley  and  his  companion,  Shellev  in 
particular,  with  his  (jreek  enthusiasm,  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  foresee  this  part  of  their  fate.  The  mortal 
pai-t  of  him,  too,  was  saved  from  corruption;  not  the  least 
extraordinary  part  of  his  history.  Among  the  materials 
for  burning,  as  many  of  the  gracefuller  and  more  classical 
articles  as  could  be  procured — frankincense,  wine,  &c. — 
were  not  forgotten;  and  to  these  Keats's  volume  was 
added.  The  beauty  of  the  flame  arising  from  the  funeral 
pile  was  extraordinary.  The  weather  was  beautifully 
fine.  The  Mediterranean,  now  soft  and  lucid,  kissed  the 
shore  as  if  to  make  peace  with  it.  The  yellow  sand  and 
blue  sky  were  intensely  contrasted  with  one  another: 
marble  mountains  touched  the  air  with  coolness;  and  the 
flame  of  the  fire  bore  away  toward  heaven  in  vigorous 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  29 

amplitude,  waving  and  quivering  with  a  brightness  of 
inconceivable  beauty.  It  seemed  as  though  it  contained 
the  glassy  essence  of  vitality.  You  might  have  expected 
a  seraphic  countenance  to  look  out  of  it,  turning  once 
more,  before  it  departed,  to  thank  the  friends  that  had 
done  their  duty. 

"  Shelley,  when  he  died,  was  in  his  thirtieth  year. 
His  figure  was  tall  and  slight,  and  his  constitution  con- 
sumptive. He  was  subject  to  violent  spasmodic  pains, 
which  would  sometimes  force  him  to  lie  on  the  ground 
till  they  were  over;  but  he  had  always  a  kind  word 
to  give  to  those  about  him,  when  his  pangs  allowed 
him  to  speak.  In  this  organization,  as  well  as  in  some 
other  respects,  he  resembled  the  German  poet,  Schiller. 
Though  well-turned,  his  shoulders  were  bent  a  little, 
owing  to  premature  thought  and  trouble.  The  same 
causes  had  touched  his  hair  with  gray ;  and  though  his 
habits  of  temperance  and  exercise  gave  him  a  remarkable 
degree  of  strength,  it  is  not  supposed  that  he  could  have 
lived  many  years.  He  used  to  say  that  he  had  lived  three 
times  as  long  as  the  calendar  gave  out ;  which  he  would 
prove,  between  jest  and  earnest,  by  some  remarks  on 
Time, 

'  That  would  have  puzzled  that  stout  Stagyrite.' 

Like  the  Stagyrite's,  his  voice  was  high  and  weak.  His 
eyes  were  large  and  animated,  with  a  dash  of  wildness  in 
them;  his  face  small,  but  well-shaped,  particularly  the 
mouth  and  chin,  the  turn  of  which  was  very  sensitive 
and  graceful.  His  complexion  was  naturally  fair  and 
delicate,  with  a  colour  in  the  cheeks.  He  had  brown  hair, 
which,  though  tinged  with  gray,  surmounted  his  face 
well,  being  in  considerable  quantity,  and  tending  to  a 
curl.  His  side-face  upon  the  whole  was  deficient  in 
strength,  and  his  features  would  not  have  told  well  in  a 
bust;  but  when  fronting  and  looking  at  you  attentively, 
his  aspect  had  a  certain  seraphical  character  that  would 
have  suited  a  portrait  of  John  the  Baptist,  or  the  angel 
whom  Milton  describes  as  holding  a  i-eed  '  tipt  with  fire.' 
Nor  would  the  most  religious  mind,  had  it  known  him, 
have  objected  to  the  comparison :  for,  with  all  his  skepti- 
cism, Shelley's  disposition  was  truly  said  to  have  been 
any  thing  but  irreligious.  A  person  of  much  eminence 
for  piety  in  our  times  has  well  observed,  that  the  greatest 
want  of  religious  feeling  is  not  to  be  found  among  the 
greatest  infidels,  but  among  those  who  never  think  of 


30  .MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY. 

religion  except  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  leading  feature 
Of  Shelley's  character  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  natui'al 
piety.  Be  was  pious  toward  nature,  toward  his  friends, 
toward  the  whole  human  race,  toward  the  meanest  insect 
of  the  forest.  He  did  himself  injustice  with  the  public, 
in  using  the  popular  name  of  the  Supreme  Being  incon- 
siderately. He  identified  it  solely  with  the  most  vulgar 
and  tyrannical  notions  of  a  God  made  alter  the  worst 
human  fashion;  and  did  not  sufficiently  reflect,  that  it 
was  often  used  by  a  juster  devotion  to  express  a  sen- 
the  great  .Mover  of  the  universe.  An  impatience  in  contra- 
dicting worldly  and  pernicious  notions  of  a  supernatural 
power,  led  his  own  aspirations  to  be  misconstrued;  for 
though,  in  the  seventy  of  his  dialectics,  and  particularly 
in  moments  of  despondency,  he  sometimes  appeared  to 
be  hopeless  of  what  he  most  desired — and  though  he 
justly  thought  that  a  Divine  Being  would  prefer  the 
increase  of  benevolence  and  good  before  any  praise,  or 
even  recognition  of  himself,  (a  reflection  worth  thinking 
of  by  the  intolerant,)  yet  there  was  in  reality  no  belief  to 
which  he  clung  with  more  fondness  than  that  of  some 
great  pervading  '  Spirit  of  Intellectual  Beauty:1  as  may 
be  seen  in  his  aspirations  on  that  subject.  He  assented 
warmly  to  an  opinion  which  I  expressed  in  the  cathedral 
at  Pisa,  while  the  organ  was  playing,  that  a  truly  divine 
religion  might  yet  be  established,  if  charity  were  really 
made  the  principle  of  it,  instead  of  faith. 

"  Music  affected  him  deeply.  He  had  also  a  delicate 
perception  of  the  beauties  of  sculpture.  It  is  not  one  of 
the  least  evidences  of  his  conscientious  turn  of  mind. 
that,  with  the  inclination  and  the  power  to  surround 
himself  in  Italy  with  all  the  graces  of  life,  he  made  no 
sort  of  attempt  that  way;  finding  other  use  for  his  money, 
and  not  always  satisfied  with  himself  for  indulging  even 
in  the  luxury  of  a  boat.  When  he  bought  elegances  of 
any  kind,  it  was  to  give  away.  Boating  was  his  great 
amusement.  He  loved  the  mixture  of  action  and  repose 
which  he  found  in  it;  and  delighted  to  fancv  himself 
gliding  away  to  Utopian  isles,  and  bowers  of  enchant- 
ment. But  he  would  give  up  any  pleasure  to  do  a  deed 
of  kindness.  Indeed,  he  may  be  said  to  have  made  the 
whole  comfort  of  his  life  a  sacrifice  to  what  he  thought 
the  w,ants  of  society. 

"  Temperament  and  early  circumstances  conspired  to 
make  him  a  reformer,  at  a  time  of  life  when  few  begin  to 
think  for  themselves ;  and  it  was  his  misfortune,  as  far  as 
immediate  reputation  was  concerned,  that  he  was  tin-own 


MEMOIR    OF    SHELLEY.  31 

upon  society  with  a  precipitancy  and  vehemence,  which 
rather  startled  them  with  fear  for' themselves,  than  allowed 
them  to  become  sensible  of  the  love  and  zeal  that  impelled 
him.  He  was  like  a  spirit  that  had  darted  out  of  its  orb, 
and  found  itself  in  another  world.  I  used  to  tell  him  that 
he  had  come  from  the  planet  Mercury.  When  I  heard 
of  the  catastrophe  that  overtook  him,"  it  see'med  that  if 
this  -pirit,  not  sufficiently  constituted  like  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  obtain  their  sympathy,  yet  gifted  with  a  double 
portion  of  love  for  all  living  things,  had  been  found  dead 
in  a  solitary  corner  of  the  earth,  its  wings  stiffened,  its 
warm  heart  cold;  the  relics  of  a  misunderstood  nature, 
slain  by  the  ungenial  elements." 


QUEEN    MAB. 

TO    HARRIET   WESTBROOKE. 

Whose  is   the   love   that,  gleaming   through  the 

world, 
Wards  off  the  poisonous  arrow  of  its  scorn  ? 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  most  sweet  reward  ? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  grow  ? 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on, 
And  loved  mankind  the  more  ? 

Harriet !  on  thine  : — thou  wert  my  purer  mind ; 
Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song ; 

Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers, 

Though  garlanded  by  me. 

Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  of  love, 
And  know,  though  time  may  change  and  years  may 
roll, 

Each  flow'ret  gathered  in  my  heart 

It  consecrates  to  thine. 


QUEEN    MAB. 

I. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue ; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  PoAver 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow, 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  '? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness  ? 
Will  Ianthe  wake  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture,  from  her  smile  ? 


QUEEN   MAB.  oO 

Yes  !  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed : 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 

'Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells, 
Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening  : 
'Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh ; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the  teints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  Fairy  Queen ! 

Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air ; 

Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 

And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 
These  the  Queen  of  Spells  drew  in, 
She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot, 

And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 


36  QUEEN    MAR. 

Oh  !  not  the  visioned  poet  in  his  dreams, 
When  silvery  clouds  floal  through  the  wildered  brain, 
When  every  sight  of  lovely,  wild  and  grand, 
Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevates — 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combinea 
The  wond'rous  and  the  beautiful, — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 
Hath  ever  yet  beheld, 
As  that  which  reined  the  coursers  of  the  air, 
And  poured  the  magic  of  her  gaze 
Upon  the  sleeping  maid. 

The  broad  and  yellow  moon 
Shone  dimly  through  her  form — 

That  form  of  faultless  symmetry  ; 

The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line  : 
'Twas  not  an  earthly  pageant ; 

Those  who  had  look'd  upon  the  sight, 
Passing  all  human  glory, 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon, 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene. 
Heard  not  the  night- wind's  rush, 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound, 
Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant, 
Heard  but  the  heavenly  strains 
That  filled  the  lonely  dwelling. 

The  Fairy's  frame  was  slight ;  yon  fibrous  cloud, 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  even. 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly  seize 
When  melting  into  eastern  twilight's  shadow, 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight ;  but  the  fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn, 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful, 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's  form, 
Spread  a  purpureal  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulating  motion, 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 


QUEEN'    MAB.  37 

From  her  celestial  ear 

The  Fairy  Queen  descended, 

And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 
Circled  with  wreaths  of  amaranth : 

Her  thin  and  misty  form 

Moved  with  the  moving  air, 

And  the  clear  silver  tones, 

As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 
As  are  unheard  by  all  but  gifted  ear. 


Stars  !  your  balmiest  influence  shed  ! 
■    Elements  !  your  wrath  suspend  ! 
Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 

That  circle  thy  domain  ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  height, 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer 
Sleep  on  the  moveless  air ! 
Soul  of  Ianthe  !  thou, 
Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon, 
That  waits  the  good  and  the  sincere ;  that  waits 
Those  who  have  struggled,  and  with  resolute  will 
Vanquished  earth's  pride  and  meanness,  burst  the 

chains, 
The  icy  chains  of  custom,  and  have  shone 
The  day-stars  of  their  age  ; — Soul  of  Ianthe  ! 
Awake  !  arise  ! 

Sudden  arose 
Ianthe's  soul ;  it  stood 
All  beautiful  in  naked  purity, 
The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame. 
Instinct  with  inexpressible  beauty  and  grace, 
Each  stain  of  earthliness 
Had  passed  away,  it  reassumed 
Its  native  dignity,  and  stood 
Immortal  amid  ruin. 


38  QUEKX    MAB. 


Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay, 
Wrapt  in  the  death  of  slumber: 

Its  features  were  fixed  and  meaningless, 
Yet  animal  life  was  there, 

And  every  organ  yet  performed 

Its  natural  functions ;  'twas  a  sight 
Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  soul. 

The  self-same  lineaments,  the  same 

Marks  of  identity  were  there ; 
Yet,  oh  how  different!     One  aspires  to  heaven, 
Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage, 
And  ever-changing,  ever-rising  still, 

Wantons  in  endless  being. 
The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 
Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on  ; 
Fleets  through  its  sad  duration  rapidly ; 
Then  like  a  useless  and  worn-out  machine, 

Rote,  perishes,  and  passes. 


Spirit !  who  hast  dived  so  deep  ; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soar'd  so  high  ; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild, 
Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  earned, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me. 

SPIRIT. 

Do  I  dream  ?    Is  this  new  feeling 
But  a  visioned  ghost  of  slumber  '? 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 
A  free,  a  disembodied  soul, 
Speak  again  to  me. 


I  am  the  Fairy  Mab  :  to  me  'tis  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep. 
The  secrets  of  the  immeasurable  past, 
In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men, 
Those  stern,  unflattering  chroniclers,  I  find 


QUEEX   MAB.  39 

The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 
In  each  event,  I  gather  :   not  the  sting 
Which  retributive  memory  implants 
In  the  hard  bosom  of  the  selfish  man  ; 
Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exulting  throb 
Which  virtue's  votary  feels  when  he  sums  up 
The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent  day, 
Are  unforeseen,  unregistered  by  me : 
And  it  is  yet  permitted  me,  to  rend 
The  veil  of  mortal  frailty,  that  the  spirit, 
Clothed  in  its  changeless  purity,  may  know 
How  soonest  to  accomplish  the  great  end 
For  Avhich  it  hath  its  being,  and  may  taste 
That  peace,  which  in  the  end,  all  life  will  share. 
This  is  the  meed  of  virtue ;  happy  Soul, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me  ! 

The  chains  of  earth's  innnurement 
Fell  from  Ianthe's  spirit ; 
They  shrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of  straw 
Beneath  a  wakened  giant's  strength. 
She^  knew  her  glorious  change, 
And  felt  in  apprehension  uncontrolled 

New  raptures  opening  round : 
Each  day-dream  of  her  mortal  life, 
Each  frenzied  vision  of  the  slumbers 
That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 
Seemed  now  to  meet  reality. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded ; 
The  silver  clouds  disparted ; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended, 
Again  the  speechless  music  swelled, 
Again  the  courses  of  the  air, 
Unfurled  their  azure  pennons,  and  the  Queen, 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins, 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
The  nidit  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 


40  QUEEN   MAJJ. 

Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault, — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 
Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn  : — 
The  magic  car  moved  on — 
From  the  celestial  hoot's 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew, 

And  where  the  burning  Avheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 
The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 
Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 
Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 

The  mirror  of  its  stillness  showed 
The  pale  and  waning  stars, 
The  chariot's  fiery  track, 
And  the  gray  light  of  morn 
Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 
That  canopied  the  dawn. 

Seemed  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 

Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave, 

Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  colour, 

And  semicircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
As  they  approached  their  goal, 
The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed ; 
The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished ;   earth 
Appear'd  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere  ; 
The  sun's  unclouded  orb 
Rolled  through  the  black  concave ; 
Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 


QUEEN    MAB.  41 

And  fell,  like  ocean's  featheiy  spray 
Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 
Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven ; 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder :  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon  ; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea ; 
Some  dashed  athwart  with  trains  of  flame, 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven ; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot  passed, 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here  ! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 
Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee  : 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the  dead 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou  ! 
Imperishable  as  this  scene, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple  ! 


n. 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 


42  QUEEN    MAB. 

And  thou  hast  lingered  there, 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere : 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 

Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment, 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark  blue  sea : 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 

And  furled  its  wearied  wing 

Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stret  •hing  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean-waves, 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  afford. 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  Hall ! 
As  Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flasliing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea ; 
Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  Heaven. 


QUEEN    MAB.  43 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 
The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Entered  the  Hall  of  Spells  : 
Those  golden  clouds 
That  rolled  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy. 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not : 

The  light  and  crimson  mists. 
Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  that  unearthly  dwelling. 
Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will. 
Upon  their  passive  swell  the  Spirit  leaned, 
And,  for  the  varied  bliss  that  pressed  around, 
Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 

Spirit !  the  Fairy  said. 
And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome, 

This  is  a  wondrous  sight 
And  mocks  all  human  grandeur ; 
But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed,  to  dwell 
In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resigned 
To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 
Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  will 
Of  changeless  nature  would  be  unfulfilled. 
Learn  to  make  others  happy.     Spirit,  come  ! 
This  is  thine  high  reward  : — the  past  shall  rise  ; 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  present :  I  will  teach 

The  secrets  of  the  future. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Approached  the  overhanging  battlement. — 
Below  lay  stretched  the  universe  ! 
There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  bounds  imagination's  flight, 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 
In  mazy  motion  intermingled, 
Yet  still  fulfilled  immutably 
Eternal  Nature's  law. 


44  QUJEEN   MAli. 

Above,  below,  around 
The  circling  systems  formed 
A  wilderness  of  harmony  ; 
Each  with  nndeviating  aim, 
In  eloquent  silence,  through  the  depths  of  space 
Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 

There  was  a  little  light 
That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance: 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye 

Might  ken  that  rolling  orb  ; 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye, 

And  in  no  other  place 
But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  garth's  inhabitants. 

But  matter,  space  and  time, 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act ; 
And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erbounds 
Those  obstacles,  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 

The  Fairy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
The  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognized. 
The  thronging  thousands,  to  a  passing  view, 
Seemed  like  an  ant-hill's  citizens. 
How  wonderful  !  that  even 
The  passions,  prejudices,  interests, 
That  sway  the  meanest  being,  the  weak  touch 
That  moves  the  finest  nerve. 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the  faintest  thought,  becomes  a  link 
In  the  great  chain  of  nature. 

Behold,  the  Fairy  cried, 
Palmyra's  ruin'd  palaces  ! — 

Behold  !  where  grandeur  frowned  ; 
Behold  !  where  pleasure  smiled ; 


QUEEN    MAB.  45 

What  now  remains  ? — the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame — 

What  is  immortal  there  ? 

Nothing — it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning :  soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame. 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race, — 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past. 

Beside  the  eternal  Xile 

The  Pyramids  have  risen. 
Xile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way ; 

Those  Pyramids  shall  fall ; 
Yea  !  not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell 

The  spot  whereon  they  stood  ; 
Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 

As  is  their  builder's  name  ! 

Behold  yon  sterile  spot ; 
Where  now  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 

Flaps  in  the  desert-blast. 
There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Reared  high  to  heaven  its  thousand  golden  domes, 
And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 
Exposed  its  shameful  glory. 
Oh  !  many  a  widow,  many  an  orphan  cursed 
The  building  of  that  fane  ;  and  many  a  father, 
"Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The  poor  man's  God  to  sweep  it  from  the  earth, 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone,  and  poisoning 
The  choicest  days  of  life. 
To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race 


46  QUEEN    SCAB. 

Howled  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon-God  ; 

They  rushed  to  war,  tore  from  the  mother's  womb 
The  unborn  child, — old  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous  perished;  their  victorious  arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  breathe.      Oh  !  they  were  fiends 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that  the  God 
Of  nature  and  benevolence  had  given 
A  special  sanction  to  the  trade  of  blood  ? 
His  name  and  theirs  are  fading,  and  the  tales 
Of  this  barbarian  nation,  which  imposture 
Recites  till  terror  credits,  are  pursuing 
Itself  into  forgetfulness. 

Where  Athens,  Rome,  and  Sparta  stood, 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now : 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts, 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces, 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes, 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion  ; 
The  long  and  lonely  colonnades, 
Through  which  the  ghost  of  Freedom  stalks, 

Seem  like  a  well-known  tune, 
Which,  in  some  dear  scene  we  have  loved  to  hear, 

Remembered  now  in  sadness. 

But,  oh  !  how  much  more  changed, 

How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 

Of  human  nature  there  ! 
Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 
A  coward  and  a  fool,  spreads  death  around — 

Then,  shuddering,  meets  his  own. 
Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 
A  cowled  and  hypocritical  monk 

Prays,  curses,  and  deceives. 

Spirit !  ten  thousand  years 

Have  scarcely  passed  away, 
Since,  in  the  waste  where  now  the  savage  drinks 
His  enemy's  blood,  and  aping  Europe's  sons, 

Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  Avar, 


QUEEN    MAB.  47 

Arose  a  stately  city, 
Metropolis  of  the  western  continent  : 

There,  now,  the  mossy  colmnn-stone, 
Indented  by  time's  unrelaxing  grasp, 
Which  once  appeared  to  bravej 
All,  save  its  country's  ruin  ; 
There  the  wide  forest  scene, 
Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild, 
Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner,  whose  steps, 

Chance  in  that  desert  has  delayed, 
Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what  it  is. 

Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt, 
Whither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flocked 
Strangers,  and  ships,  and  merchandise  : 
Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 
The  cultivated  plain : 
But  wealth,  that  curse  of  man, 
Blighted  the  bud  of  its  prosperity  : 
Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty, 
Fled,  to  return  not,  until  man  shall  know 
That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 

Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 
Its  kindred  with  eternity. 

There's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 

But  once  was  living  man  ; 
Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain, 
That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud, 

But  flowed  in  human  veins : 

And  from  the  burning  plains 

Where  Libyan  monsters  yell, 

From  the  most  gloomy  glens 

Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime, 

To  where  the  golden  fields 

Of  fertile  England  spread 

Their  harvest  to  the  day, 

Thou  canst  not  find  one  spot 

Whereon  no  city  stood. 


48  QUEEN   MAB. 

How  strange  is  human  pride  ! 
I  tell  thee  that  those  living  tilings, 
To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass, 

That  springeth  in  the  morn 
And  perisheth  ere  noon, 
Is  an  unbounded  world  ; 
I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings, 
Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 
Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 
Think,  feel,  and  live  like  man  ; 
That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 
Like  his,  produce  the  laws 
lluling  their  moral  state  ; 
And  the  minutest  throb 
That  through  their  frame  diffuses 
The  slightest,  faintest  motion, 
Is  fixed  and  indispensable 
As  the  majestic  laws 
That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs. 

The  Fairy  paused.     The  Spirit, 
In  ecstasy  of  admiration,  felt 
All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived ;  the  events 

Of  old  and  wondrous  times, 
Which  dim  tradition  interruptedly 
Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  unfolded 
In  just  perspective  to  the  view  ; 
Yet  dim  from  their  infinitude. 
The  Spirit  seemed  to  stand 
High  on  an  isolated  pinnacle ; 
The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 
The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 
Above,  and  all  around 
Nature's  unchanjrincr  harmonv. 


III. 

Fairy  !  the  Spirit  said. 
And  on  the  Queen  of  Spells 


QUEEN   MAB.  49 

Fixed  her  ethereal  eyes, 
I  thank  thee.     Thou  hast  given 
A  boon  which  I  will  not  resign,  and  taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unlearned.     I  know 
The  past,  and  thence  I  will  essay  to  glean 
A  warning  for  the  future,  so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors,  and  derive 

Experience  from  his  folly : 
For,  when  the  power  of  imparting  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 

Requires  no  other  heaven. 


Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit ! 
Much  yet  remains  unscanned. 
Thou  knowest  how  great  is  man, 
Thou  knowest  his  imbecility  : 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is  ; 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  Time  prepares 
For  every  living  soul. 

Behold  a  gorgeous  palace,  that,  amid 

Yon  populous  city,  rears  its  thousand  towers 

And  seems  itself  a  city.     Gloomy  troops 

Of  sentinels,  in  stern  and  silent  ranks, 

Encompass  it  around  :  the  dweller  there 

Cannot  be  free  and  happy ;  hearest  thou  not 

The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 

Of  those  Avho  have  no  friend  ?     He  passes  on  : 

The  King,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain 

That  binds  his  soul  to  abjectness,  the  fool 

AVhom  courtiers  nickname  monarch,  Avhilst  a  slave 

Even  to  the  basest  appetites — that  man 

Heeds  not  the  shriek  of  penury  ;  he  smiles 

At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 

Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 

Pervadea  his  bloodless  heart  when  thousands  groan 

But  lor  those  morsels  which  his  wantonness 

VOL.   I.  4 


50  QUEEN    MAB. 

Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 

All  that  they  love  from  famine  :  when  he  hears 

The  tale  of  horror,  to  some  ready-made  face 

Of  hypocritical  assent  he  turns, 

Smothering  the  glow  of  shame,  that,  spite  of  him, 

Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur,  and  excess,  he  drags 
His  palled  unwilling  appetite.     If  gold, 
Gleaming  around,  and  numerous  viands  culled 
From  every  clime,  could  force  the  loathing  sense 
To  overcome  satiety, — if  wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not, — or  vice, 
Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  converteth  not 
Its  food  to  deadliest  venom  ;  then  that  king 
Is  happy  ;  and  the  peasant  who  fulfils 
His  unforced  task,  when  he  returns  at  even, 
And  by  the  blazing  fagot  meets  again 
Her  welcome  for  whom  all  his  toil  is  sped, 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretched  on  the  gorgeous  couch ;  his  fevered  brain 
Reels  dizzily  awhile  :  but  ah !  too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides, 
And  conscience,  that  undying  serpent,  calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to  their  nocturnal  task. 
Listen  !  he  speaks  !  oh  !  mark  that  frenzied  eye  — 
Oh  !  mark  that  deadly  visage. 

KING. 

No  cessation  ! 
Oh  !  must  this  last  forever  !     Awful  death. 
I  wish  yet  fear  to  clasp  thee !     Not  one  moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !     O  dear  and  blessed  peace  ! 
Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 
In  penury  and  dungeons  !  wherefore  lurkest 
With  danger,  death,  and  solitude  :  yet  shunn'st 


QUEEN    MAB.  51 

The  palace  I  have  built  thee  !    Sacred  peace  ! 
Oh  visit  me  but  once,  and  pitying  shed 
One  drop  of  balm  upon  my  withered  soul. 

Vain  man  !  that  palace  is  the  virtuous  heart, 

And  peace  defileth  not  her  snowy  robes 

In  such  a  shed  as  thine.     Hark  !  yet  he  mutters  ; 

His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies, 

They  prey  like  scorpions  on  the  springs  of  life. 

There  needeth  not  the  hell  that  bigots  frame 

To  punish  those  who  err :  earth  in  itself 

Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure ; 

And  all-sufficing  nature  can  chastise 

Those  who  transgress  her  law, — she  only  knows 

How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 

The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him  in  his  woe  ? 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjeetness,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes  him  ?     Is  it  strange 
That,  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of  thorns, 
Grasping  an  iron  sceptre,  and  immured 
Within  a  splendid  prison,  whose  stern  bounds 
Shut  him  from  all  that's  good  or  dear  on  earth, 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  ? 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 
Against  a  king's  employ  V     No — 'tis  not  strange, 
He,  like  the  vulgar,  thinks,  feels,  acts,  and  lives 
Just  as  his  father  did ;  the  unconcpiered  powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between  a  king  and  virtue.     Stranger  yet, 
To  those  who  know  not  nature,  nor  deduce 
The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem, 
That  not  one  slave,  who  suffers  from  the  crimes 
Of  this  unnatural  being ;  not  one  wretch, 
Whose  children  famish,  and  whose  nuptial  bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bosom,  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne  ! 


52  QUEEN    MAB. 

Those  gilded  flics 
That  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court, 
Fatten  on  its  corruption  ! — what  are  they  V 
— The  drones  of  the  community;  they  feed 
On  the  mechanic's  labour;  the  starved  hind 
For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe  to  yield 
Its  unshared  harvests  ;  and  yon  squalid  form, 
Leaner  than  fleshless  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unwholesome  mine, 
Drags  out  in  labour  a  protracted  death, 
To  glut  their  grandeur ;  many  faint  with  toil, 
That  few  may  know  the  cares  and  woe  of  sloth. 

Whence,  fhinkest  thou,  kings  and  parasites  arose  ? 
Whence  that  unnatural  line  of  drones,  who  heap 
Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury 
On  those  who  build  their  palaces,  and  bring 
Their  daily  bread  ? — From  vice,  black  loathsome 

vice ; 
From  rapine,  madness,  treachery,  and  wrong; 
From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 
Of  earth  this  thorny  wilderness ;  from  lust, 
Revenge,  and  murder. — And  when  reasotfs  voice, 
Loud  as  the  voice  of  nature,  shall  have  waked 
The  nations  ;  and  mankind  perceive  that  vice 
Is  discord,  war,  and  misery ;  that  virtue 
Is  peace,  and  happiness,  and  harmony  ; 
When  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 
The  playthings  of  its  childhood  ; — kingly  glare 
Will  lose  its  power  to  dazzle  ;  its  authority 
Will  silently  pass  by  ;  the  gorgeous  throne 
Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall, 
Fast  falling  to  decay  ;  whilst  falsehood's  trade 
Shall  be  as  hateful  and  unprofitable 
As  that  of  truth  is  now. 

Where  is  the  fame 
Which  the  vain-glorious  mighty  of  the  earth 
Seek  to  eternize  ?     Oh  !  the  faintest  sound 


QUEEX   MAB.  53 

From  time's  light  foot-fall,  the  minutest  wave 

That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in  nothing 

The  unsubstantial  bubble.     Aye  !  today 

Stern  is  the  tyrant's  mandate,  red  the  gaze 

That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 

That  scatters  multitudes.     To-morrow  comes  ! 

That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 

In  ages  past ;  that  gaze,  a  transient  flash 

On  which  the  midnight  closed,  and  on  that  arm 

The  worm  has  made  Ins  meal. 

The  virtuous  man 
Who,  great  in  his  humility,  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur  ;  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good, 
And  stands  amid  the  silent  dungeon-depths 
More  free  and  fearless  than  the  trembling  judge, 
Who,  clothed  in  venal  power,  vainly  strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit ; — when  he  falls, 
His  mild  eye  beams  benevolence  no  more  : 
Withered  the  hand  outstretched  but  to  relieve  ; 
Sunk  reason's  simple  eloquence,  that  rolled 
But  to  appall  the  guilty.     Yes !  the  grave 
Hath   quenched   that   eye,  and  death's  relentless 

frost 
Withered  that  arm  :  but  the  unfading  fame 
Which  virtue  hangs  upon  its  votary's  tomb  ; 
The  deathless  memory  of  that  man,  whom  kings 
Call  to  their  mind  and  tremble  ;  the  remembrance 
With  which  the  happy  spirit  contemplates 
Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Shall  never  pass  away. 

Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man  ; 
The  subject,  not  the  citizen  :  for  kings 
And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  forever  play 
A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands. 
Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.     The  man 
Of  virtuous  soul  commands  not,  nor  obeys. 


54  QUEEN    MAI;. 

Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence, 
Pollutes  whate'er  it  touches;  and  obedience, 
Bane  of  all  genius,  virtue,  freedom;  truth, 
Makes  slaves  of  men,  and  of  the  human  frame 
A  mechanized  automaton. 

When  Nero, 
High  over  flaming  Rome,  with  savage  joy- 
Lowered  like  a  fiend,  drank  with  enraptured  ear 
The  shrieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 
The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 
A  new-created  sense  within  his  soul 
Thrill  to  the  sight,  and  vibrate  to  the  sound  ; 
Thinkest  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  overcome 
The  force  of  human  kindness  ?  and,  when  Rome, 
With  one  stern  blow,  hurled  not  the  tyrant  down, 
Crushed  not  the  arm,  red  with  her  dearest  blood, 
Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroyed 
Nature's  suggestions  ? 

Look  on  yonder  earth  : 
The  golden  harvests  spring ;  the  unfailing  sun 
Sheds   light  and  life ;  the  fruits,  the  flowers,  the 

trees, 
Arise  in  due  succession  ;  all  things  speak 
Peace,  harmony,  and  love.     The  universe, 
In  nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 
That  all  fulfil  the  works  of  love  and  joy, — 
All  but  the  outcast,  Man.     He  fabricates 
The  sword  which  stabs  his  peace ;  he  cherisheth 
The  snakes  that  gnaw  his  heart ;  he  raiseth  up 
The  tyrant,  whose  delight  is  in  his  woe, 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.     Yon  sun, 
Lights  it  the  great  alone  ?     Yon  silver  beams, 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the  cottage  thatch, 
Than  on  the  dome  of  kings  ?     Is  mother  earth 
A  step-dame  to  her  numerous  sons,  who  earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil ; 
A  mother  only  to  those  puling  babes 


QUEEN    MAB.  55 

'Who,  nursed  in  ease  and  luxury,  make  men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood,  and  mar, 
In  self-important  childishness,  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate  '? 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  no  ! 
The  pure  diffusion  of  thy  essence  throbs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 

Thou,  aye,  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable  : 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  whose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority 

Is  powerless  as  the  wind 

That  passeth  idly  by. 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 
The  show  of  human  justice, 

As  God  surpasses  man. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes  ; 

Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose   changeless   paths   through  Heaven's  deep 
silence  lie  ; 
Soul  of  that  smallest  being, 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  faint  April  sun-gleam  ; — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things, 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth  : 
Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace, 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
Will  swiftly,  surely,  come  ; 
And  the  unbounded  frame,  which  thou  pervadest 
Will  be  without  a  flaw 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry. 


IV. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh, 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 


56  QUEEN   ma  15. 

Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon 

vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 

Through   which   the   moon's  unclouded  grandeur 

rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, 
So  stainless  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  yon  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  ; — all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness ; 
Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

The  orb  of  day, 
In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling  :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep  ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes  : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackened  waters  ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge ;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns, — the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 
That  fires   the  arch  of  heaven ! — that   dark   red 
smoke 


QUEEN"    MAB.  57 

Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?    The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow- 
Gleams    faintly    through    the    gloom    that    gathers 

round. 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  midnight  on  her  starry  throne  ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  :  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  : — loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows  ;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene, 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquerM  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud. — Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health  ;  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there ; 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  grey  morn 
Dawns   on   the   mournful   scene ;    the  sulphurous 

smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away. 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     There  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful 

path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors:  far  behind. 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 


58  QUEEN    MAIL 

Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day, 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

I  sec  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing  Spirit ! — wert  thou  human  else  ? 
I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  fleel 
Across  thy  stainless  features  :  yet  fear  not ; 
This  is  no  unconnected  misery, 
Nor  stands  uncaused,  and  irretrievable. 
Man's  evil  nature,  that  apology 
Which  kings  who  rule,  and  cowards  who  crouch, 

set  up 
For  their  unnumbered  crimes,  sheds  not  the  blood 
Which  desolates  the  discord- wasted  land. 
From  kings,  and  priests,  and  statesmen,  war  arose, 
Whose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbettered  Avoe, 
Whose  grandeur  his  debasement.     Let  the  axe 
Strike  at  the  root,  the  poison-tree  will  fall ; 
And  where  its  venomed  exhalations  spread 
Ruin,  and  death,  and  woe,  where  millions  lay 
Quenching  the  serpent's  famine,  and  their  bones 
Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast, 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 

Hath  Nature's  soul, 
That  formed  this  world  so  beautiful,  that  spread 
Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  life's  smallest  chord 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The  happy  birds  their  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The  lovely  silence  of  the  unfathomed  main, 
And  filled  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls  in  dust 
With  spirit,  thought,  and  love  ;  on  Man  alone 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heaped  ruin,  vice,  and  slavery ;  his  soul 
Blasted  with  withering  curses  ;  placed  afar 
The  meteor  happiness,  that  shuns  his  grasp, 
But  serving  on  the  frightful  gulf  to  glare, 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps  ? 


QUEEN    MAB.  59 

Nature  ! — no  ! 
and    statesmen   blast   the   human 
flower. 
Even  in  its  tender  bud ;  their  influence  darts 
Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless  veins 
Of  desolate  society.     The  child, 
Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name, 
Swells  writh  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime,  and  lifts 
His  baby-sword  even  in  a  hero's  mood. 
This  infant  arm  becomes  the  bloodiest  scourge 
Of  devastated  earth  ;  whilst  specious  names 
Learnt  in  soft  childhood's  unsuspecting  hour, 
Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  manhood  dims 
Bright  reason's  ray,  and  sanctifies  the  sword 
Upraised  to  shed  a  brother's  innocent  blood. 
Let  priest-led  slaves  cease  to  proclaim  that  man 
Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 
And  falsehood  hang  even  o'er  the  cradled  babe, 
Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 

Ah  !  to  the  stranger-soul,  when  first  it  peeps 
From  its  new  tenement,  and  looks  abroad 
For  happiness  anil  sympathy,  how  stern 
And  desolate  a  tract  is  this  wide  world ! 
How  withered  all  the  buds  of  natural  good  ! 
No  shade,  no  shelter  from  the  sweeping  storms 
Of  pitiless  power  !     On  its  wretched  frame, 
Poisoned,  perchance,  by  the  disease  and  woe 
Heaped  on  the  wretched  parent,  whence  it  sprung, 
By  morals,  law,  and  custom,  the  pure  winds 
Of  heaven,  that  renovate  the  insect  tribes, 
May  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light  of  day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere  it  has  life :  yea,  all  the  chains  are  forged 
Long  ere  its  being :  all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is  torn  from  its  defencelessness  ; 
Cursed    from    its    birth,    even    from     its    cradle 

doomed 
To  abjectness  and  bondage  ! 


GO  QURBN    MAR. 

Throughout  tins  varied  and  eternal  world 
Soul  is  the  only  element,  the  block 
That  for  uncounted  ages  has  Remained. 

The  moveless  pillar  of  a  mountain's  weight 

Is  active  living  spirit.     Every  grain 

Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and   part, 

And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 

A  world  of  loves  and  hatreds;  these  beget 

Evil  and  o;ood  :  hence  truth  and  falsehood  s 


I'lULT 


,~  i 


Hence  will,  and  thought,  and  action,  all  the  genus 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate, 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe. 

Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 

Of  heaven's  pure  orb,  ere  round  their  rapid  lines 

The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

Man  is  of  soul  and  body,  formed  for  deeds 

Of  high  resolve  ;  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 

To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 

The  keenest  pangs  to  peacefulness,  and  taste 

The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit  yield. 

Or  he  is  formed  for  abjectness  and  woe, 

To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears. 

To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to  quench  the  flame 

Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 

That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless  days 

The  frozen  hand  of  death  shall  set  its  seal, 

Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  disease. 

The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be ; 

The  other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him  now. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight, 
The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade, 
And,  to  those  royal  murderers,  whose  mean  thrones 
Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore. 
The  bread  they  eat.  the  staff  on  which  they  lean. 
Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red  livery,  surround 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage 


QUEEN    MAB.  61 

Secure  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 
That  famine,  frenzy,  -woe  and  penury  breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravoes  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne — the  bullies  of  his  fear  : 
These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst  vice, 
The  refuge  of  society,  the  dregs 
Of  all  that  is  most  vile :  their  cold  hearts  blend 
Deceit  with  sternness,  ignorance  with  pride, 
All  that  is  mean  and  viilanous.  with  rage 
Which  hopelessness  of  good,  and  self-contempt, 
Alone  might  kindle ;  they  are  decked  in  wealth, 
Honour  and  power,  then  are  sent  abroad 
To  do  their  work.     The  pestilence  that  stalks 
In  gloomy  triumph  through  some  Eastern  land 
Is  less  destroying.     They  cajole  with  gold, 
And  promise?  of  fame,  the  thoughtless  youth 
Already  crushed  with  servitude  :  he  knows 
His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 
Repentance  for  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 
Is  sealed  in  gold  and  blood  ! 
Those  too  the  tyrant  serve,  who  skilled  to  snare 
The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law, 
Stand,  ready  to  oppress  the  weaker  still ; 
And,  right  or  wrong,  will  vindicate  for  gold, 
Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  beneath 
Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled,  where 
Honour  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 

Then  grave  and  hoary-headed  hypocrites, 
AVithout  a  hope,  a  passion,  or  a  love, 
Who,  through  a  life  of  luxury  and  lies, 
Have  crept  by  flattery  to  the  seats  of  power, 
Support  the  system  whence  their  honours  flow — 
They  have  three  words  :  well  tyrants  know  their  use, 
Well  pay  them  for  the  loan,  with  usury 
Torn    from    a    bleeding    world  ! — God,   Hell,    and 

Heaven. 
A  vengeful,  pitiless,  and  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  mercy  is  a  nick-name  fur  the  rage 


62  QUEEN   MAJB. 

Of  tameless  tigers  hungering  for  blood. 
Hell,  a  red  gulf  of  everlasting  fire, 
Where  poisonous  and  undying  worms  prolong 
Eternal  misery  to  those  hapless  slaves 
Whose  life  has  been  a  penance  for  its  crimes. 
And  Heaven,  a  meed  for  those  who  dare  belie 
Their  human  nature,  quake,  believe,  and  cringe 
Before  the  mockeries  of  earthly  power. 

These  tools  the  tyrant  tempers  to  his  work, 
Wields  in  his  wrath,  and  as  he  wills,  destroys, 
Omnipotent  in  wickedness :  the  while 
Youth  springs,  age  moulders,  manhood  tamely  doe^ 
His  bidding,  bribed  by  short-lived  joys  to  lend 
Force  to  the  weakness  of  his  trembling  arm. 

They  rise,  they  fall ;  one  generation  comes 
Yielding  its  harvest  to  destruction's  scythe. 
It  fades,  another  blossoms  :  yet  behold  ! 
Red  glows  the  tyrant's  stamp-mark  on  its  bloom, 
Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive  prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes, 
Empty  and  vain  as  his  own  coreless  heart ; 
Evasive  meanings,  nothings  of  much  sound, 
To  lure  the  heedless  victim  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 


Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy  lusts 
Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor, 
With  whom  thy  master  was : — or  thou  delight'st 
In  numbering  o'er  the  myriads  of  thy  slain, 
All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale 
Against  thy  short-lived  fame :  or  thou  dost  load 
With  cowardice  and  crime  the  groaning  land, 
A  pomp-fed  king.     Look  to  thy  wretched  self! 
Aye,  art  thou  not  the  veriest  slave  that  e'er 
Crawled  on  the  loathing  earth  '?    Are  not  thy  days 
Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessncss  ? 


QUEEN   MAB.  63 

Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack  is  o'er, 
When  will  the  morning  come  ?    Is  not  thy  youth 
A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism  ? 
Thy  manhood  blighted  with  unripe  disease  ? 
Are  not  thy  views  of  unregretted  death 
Drear,  comfortless,  and  horrible  ?     Thy  mind, 
Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame. 
Incapable  of  judgment,  hope,  or  love  ? 
And  dost  thou  wish  the  errors  to  survive 
That  bar  thee  from  all  sympathies  of  good, 
After  the  miserable  interest 

Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction  ?  When  the  grave 
Has  swallowed  up  thy  memory  and  thyself. 
Dost  thou  desire  the  bane  that  poisons  earth 
To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coffined  clay, 
Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on  thy  tomb, 
That  of  its  fruit  thv  babes  mav  eat  and  die  ? 


V. 
Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Go  to  the  grave,  and  issue  from  the  womb, 
Surviving  still  the  imperishable  change 
That  renovates  the  world ;  even  as  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost- wind  of  the  waning  year 
Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil,  and  heaped 
For  many  seasons  there,  though  long  they  choke, 
Loading  with  loathsome  rottenness  the  land. 
All  germs  of  promise.     Yet  when  the  tall  trees 
From  which  they  fell,  shorn  of  their  lovely  shapes, 
Lie  level  with  the  earth  to  moulder  there, 
They  fertilize  the  land  they  long  deformed 
Till  from  the  breathing  lawn  a  forest  springs 
Of  youth,  integrity  and  loveliness, 
Like  that  which  gave  it  life,  to  spring  and  die. 
Thus  suicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 
The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening  heart, 
Is  destined  to  decay,  whilst  from  the  soil 
Shall  spring  all  virtue,  all  delight,  all  love, 


bl  QUEKN    MAB. 

And  judgment  cease  to  wage  unnatural  war 
With  passion's  unsubduable  array. 
Twin-sister  of*  religion,  selfishness  ! 
Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 
The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play  ; 
Yet  frozen,  unimpassioned,  spiritless, 
Shunning  the  light,  and  owning  not  its  name: 
Compelled,  by  its  deformity,  to  screen 
With  flimsv  veil  of  justice  and  of  right, 
Its  unattractive  lineaments,  that  scare 
All,  save  the  brood  of  ignorance :  at  once 
The  cause  and  the  effect  of  tyranny ; 
Unblushing,  hardened,  sensual,  and  vile  ; 
Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness, 
With  heart  impassive  by  more  noble  powers 
Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  or  fame  ; 
Despising  its  own  miserable  being, 
Which  still  it  longs,  yet  fears,  to  disenthrall. 

Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal  interchange 

Of  all  that  human  art  or  nature  yield ; 

Which    wealth    should    purchase    not,   but   want 

demand, 
And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply 
From  the  full  fountain  of  its  boundless  love, 
Forever  stifled,  drained,  and  tainted  now. 
Commerce  !  beneath  whose  poison-breathing  shade 
No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring  ; 
But  poverty  and  wealth  with  equal  hand 
Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 
The  doors  of  premature  and  violent  death. 
To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  disease, 
To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life, 
Which  poisoned  body  and  soul,  scarce  drags  the 

chain 
That  lengthens  as  it  goes  and  clanks  behind. 

Commerce  has  set  the  mark  of  selfishness, 
The  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power, 


QUEEN    MAB.  65 

Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  called  it  gold : 
Before  whose  image  bow  the  vulgar  great, 
The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud, 
The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests,  and  kings, 
And  with  blind  feelings  reverence  the  power 
That  grinds  them  to  the  dust  of  misery. 
But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 
Gold  is  a  living  god,  and  rules  in  scorn 
All  earthly  things  but  virtue. 

Since  tyrants,  by  the  sale  of  human  life, 
Heap  luxuries  to  their  sensualism,  and  fame 
To  their  wide-wasting  and  insatiate  pride, 
Success  has  sanctioned  to  a  credulous  world 
The  ruin,  the  disgrace,  the  woe  of  war. 
His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 
The  despot  numbers  ;  from  his  cabinet 
These  puppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves  at  will, 
Even  as  the  slaves  by  force  or  famine  driven 
Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  perform 
A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery  ; — 
Hardened  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear, 
Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine, 
Mere  wheels  of  work  and  articles  of  trade, 
That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of  wealth  ! 

The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 

Yield  to  the  wealth  of  nations  ;  that  which  lifts 

His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride, 

Is  bartered  for  the  poison  of  his  soul ; 

The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  towering  hopes, 

Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 

Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear, 

Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 

Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 

That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 

To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys, — 

Leaves  nothing  but  the  sordid  lust  of  self, 

The  grovelling  hope  of  interest  and  gold, 

VOL.   T.  5 


66  QUEEN   MAC. 

Unqualified,  unmingletl,  unredeemed 
Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth  !    The  wordy  eloquence  that  lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  poison  of  a  nation's  woe, 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol,  Fame, 
From  Virtue,  trampled  by  its  iron  tread, 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-strewn  field, 
With  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  who,  by  his  warm  fire-side, 
To  deeds  of  charitable  intercourse 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 
Of  decency  and  prejudice,  confines 
The  struggling  nature  of  his  human  heart, 
Is  duped  by  their  cold  sophistry ;  he  sheds 
A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 
Of  earthly  peace,  when  near  his  dwelling's  door 
The  frightful  waves  are  driven, — when  his  son 
Is  murdered  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad.     But  the  poor  man, 
Whose  life  is  misery,  and  fear,  and  care  ; 
Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  fruitless  toil ; 
Who  ever  hears  his  famished  offspring's  scream, 
Whom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplaining  gaze 
Forever  meets,  and  the  proud  rich  man's  eye 
Flashing  command,  and  the  heart-breaking  scene 
Of  thousands  like  himself;  he  little  heeds 
The  rhetoric  of  tyranny,  his  hate 
Is  quenchless  as  his  wrongs,  he  laughs  to  scorn 
The  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words, 
Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds, 
And  unrestrained  but  by  the  arm  of  power, 
That  knows  and  dreads  his  enmity. 

The  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 

Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to  wealth, 


QUEEN    MAB.  67 

And  poison,  with  unprofitable  toil, 

A  life  too  void  of  solace  to  confirm 

The  verv  chains  that  bind  him  to  his  doom. 

Nature,  impartial  in  munificence, 

Has  gifted  man  with  all-subduing  will : 

Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes, 

Lies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet, 

That,  weak  from  bondage,  tremble  as  they  tread. 

How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  passed  by, 

Stiffing  the  speechless  longings  of  his  heart, 

In  unremitting  drudgery  and  care ! 

How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled 

His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 

To  mould  a  pin,  or  fabricate  a  nail ! 

How  many  a  Xewton,  to  whose  passive  ken 

Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 

Were  only  specks  of  tinsel,  fixed  in  heaven 

To  light  the  midnights  of  his  native  town  ! 

Yet  every  heart  contains  perfection's  germ  : 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless  tone, 
Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy, 
Proud,  sensual,  unimpassioned,  unimbued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love, 
Compared  to  that  high  being,  of  cloudless  brain, 
Untainted  passion,  elevated  will, 
Which  death  (who  even  would  linger  long  in  awe 
Within  his  noble  presence,  and  beneath 
His  changeless  eye-beam.)  might  alone  subdue. 
Him,  every  slave  now  dragging  through  the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life, 
Pining  with  famine,  swoln  with  luxury, 
Blunting  the  keenness  of  his  spiritual  sense 
With  narrow  schemings  and  unworthy  cares, 
Or  madly  rushing  through  all  violeut  crime, 
To  move  the  deep  stagnation  of  his  soul, — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 


G8  QUEEN    .MAI!. 

But  mean  lust 
Has  bound  its  chains  so  tight  about  the  earth, 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal :  gold  or  fame  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefixed  by  selfishness,  to  all 
But  him  of  resolute  and  unchanging  will  ; 
Whom,  nor  the  plaudits  of  a  servile  crowd, 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury, 
Can  bribe  to  yield  his  elevated  soul 
To  tyranny  or  falsehood,  though  they  wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the  sceptre  of  the  world. 

All  things  are  sold :  the  very  light  of  heaven 

Is  venal ;  earth's  unsparing  gifts  of  love, 

The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 

That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep. 

All  objects  of  our  life,  even  life  itself, 

And  the  poor  pittance  which  the  laws  allow 

Of  liberty,  the  fellowship  of  man, 

Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human  love 

Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively, 

Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 

Of  undisguising  selfishness,  that  sets 

On  each  its  price,  the  stamp-mark  of  her  reign. 

Even  love  is  sold ;  the  solace  of  all  woe 

Is  turned  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age 

Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  loathing  arms, 

And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 

A  life  of  horror  from  the  blighting  bane 

Of  commerce :  whilst  the  pestilence  that  springs 

From  unenjoying  sensualism,  has  filled 

All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the  pangs 
Of  outraged  conscience  ;  for  the  slavish  priest 
Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith  : 
A  little  passing  pomp,  some  servile  souls, 
Whom  cowardice  itself  might  safely  chain, 
Or  the  spare  mite  of  avarice  could  bribe 


QUEEN"   MAB.  69 

To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal, 

Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 

More  daring  crime  requires  a  loftier  meed  : 

Without  a  shudder  the  slave-soldier  lends 

Hi<  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels  his  heart, 

When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 

Low  mingling  on  the  lonely  field  of  fame, 

Assails  that  nature  whose  applause  he  sells 

For  the  gross  blessings  of  the  patriot  mob, 

For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings, 

And  for  a  cold  world's  good  word, — viler  still  ! 

There  is  a  nobler  glory  which  survives 

Until  our  being  fades,  and,  solacing 

All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change ; 

Deserts  not  virtue  in  the  dungeon's  gloom, 

And,  in  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  guides 

Its  footsteps  through  that  labyrinth  of  crime  ; 

Imbues  his  lineaments  with  dauntlessness, 

Even  when,  from  power's  avenging  hand,  he  takes 

It,-  sweetest,  last,  and  noblest  title— death ; 

— The  consciousness  of  good,  which  neither  gold, 

Nor  sordid  fame,  nor  hope  of  heavenly  bliss, 

Can  purchase  ;  but  a  life  of  resolute  good, 

Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 

Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 

That  beats  with  it  in  unison,  the  brain, 

Whose  ever-wakeful  wisdom  toils  to  change 

Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal. 

This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  mediative  signs  of  selfishness, 
Xo  jealous  intercourse  of  wretched  gain, 
Xo  balancings  of  prudence,  cold  and  long ; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weighed, 
One  scale  contains  the  sum  of  human  weal, 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heart. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 


70  QUEEN  MAB. 

To  aught  but  virtue  !     Blind  and  hardened,  they 
Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of  care, 
Who  covet  power  they  know  not  how  to  use, 
And  sigh  for  pleasure  they  refuse  to  give  : — 
Madly  they  frustrate  still  their  own  designs  ; 
And,  where  they  hope  that  quiet  to  enjoy 
Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
Pining  regrets,  and  vain  repentances, 
Disease,  disgust,  and  lassitude,  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 

But  hoary-headed  selfishness  has  felt 

Its  death-blow,  and  is  tottering  to  the  grave  : 

A  brighter  morn  awaits  the  human  day, 

When  every  transfer  of  earth's  natural  gifts 

Shall  be  a  commerce  of  good  words  and  works  ; 

When  poverty  and  wealth,  the  thirst  of  fame, 

The  fear  of  infamy,  disease  and  woe, 

War  with  its  million  horrors,  and  fierce  hell, 

Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time, 

Who,  like  a  penitent  libertine  shall  start, 

Look  back,  and  shudder  at  his  younger  years. 


VI. 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame, 
The  varying  periods  painted,  changing  glows ; 

As  on  a  summer  even, 
When  soul-enfolding  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
K,e-images  the  eastern  gloom, 
Mingling  convulsively  its  purple  hues 
With  sunset's  burnished  gold. 

Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke  : 
It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world ! 
Thorny,  and  full  of  care, 


QUEEN    MAB.  71 

Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  pre)'  at  will. 
O  Fairy  !  in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  ? 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminably,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souk, 
And  see  no  hope  for  them  ? 
Will  not  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Revivify  this  withered  limb  of  Heaven  ? 

The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindling  gleam  of  hope 

Suffused  the  Spirit's  lineaments. 
Oh  !  rest  thee  tranquil ;  chase  those  fearful  doubts. 
Which  ne'er  could  rack  an  everlasting  soul, 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its  doom. 
Yes  !  crime  and  misery  are  in  yonder  earth, 

Falsehood,  mistake,  and  lust; 

But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up, 

Even  in  perversest  time  : 
The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never  die, 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a  wreath 

Of  ever-living  flame, 
Until  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death. 

How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become  ! 
Of  purest  spirits,  a  pure  dwelling-place, 
Symphonious  with  the  planetary  spheres ; 
When  man,  with  changeless  nature  coalescing, 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work, 
When  its  ungenial  poles  no  longer  point 

To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 

That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

Spirit,  on  yonder  earth, 
Falsehood  now  triumphs  ;  deadly  power 
Has  fixed  its  seal  upon  the  lip  of  truth  ! 


72  QUEEN    MAB. 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  ! 
The  happiest  is  most  wretched  !     Yet  confide 
Until  pure  health-drops,  from  the  cup  of  joy 
Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world. 
Now,  to  the  scene  I  show,  in  silence  turn, 
And  read  the  blood-stained  charier  of  all  woe, 
Which  nature  soon,  with  re-creating  hand, 
Will  blot  in  mercy  from  the  book  of  earth. 
How  bold  the  flight  of  passion's  wandering  wing, 
How  swift  the  step  of  reason's  firmer  tread, 
How  calm  and  sweet  the  victories  of  life, 
How  terrorless  the  triumph  of  the  grave  ! 
How  powerless  were  the  mightiest  monarch's  arm, 
Vain  his  loud  threat,  and  impotent  his  frown  ! 
How  ludicrous  the  priest's  dogmatic  roar ! 
The  weight  of  his  exterminating  curse 
How  light !  and  his  affected  charity, 
To  suit  the  pressure  of  the  changing  times, 
What  palpable  deceit ! — but  for  thy  aid, 
Religion  !  but  for  thee,  prolific  fiend, 
Who  peoplest  earth  with  demons,  hell  with  men, 
And  heaven  wTith  slaves  ! 

Thou  taintest  all  thou  look'st  upon  ! — the  stars, 
Which  on  thy  cradle  beamed  so  brightly  sweet, 
Were  gods  to  the  distempered  playfulness 
Of  thy  untutored  infancy :  the  trees, 
The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea, 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep,  or  fly, 
Were  gods :  the  sun  had  homage,  and  the  moon 
Her  worshipper.     Then  thou  becamest  a  boy, 
More  daring  in  thy  frenzies  :  every  shape, 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild, 
Which  from  sensation's  relics,  fancy  culls ; 
The  spirits  of  the  air,  the  shuddering  ghost, 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers 
That  give  a  shape  to  nature's  varied  works, 
Had  life  and  place  in  the  corrupt  belief 
Of  thy  blind  heart :  yet  still  thy  youthful  hands 


QUEEN    MAB.  73 

Were  pure  of  human  blood.     Then  manhood  gave 
Its  strength  and  ardour  to  thy  frenzied  brain ; 
Thine  eager  gaze  scanned  the  stupendous  scene, 
Whose  wonders  mocked  the  knowledge  of  thy  pride : 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Reproached  thine  ignorance.     Awhile  thou  stoodst 
Baffled  and  gloomy  ;  then  thou  didst  sum  up 
The  elements  of  all  that  thou  didst  know  ; 
The  changing  seasons,  winter's  leafless  reign, 
The  budding  of  the  heaven-breathing  trees, 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night, 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
Earthquakes  and  wars,  and  poisons  and  disease, 
And  all  their  causes,  to  an  abstract  point 
Converging,  thou  didst  bend,  and  call'd  it  God  ! 
The  self-sufficing,  the  omnipotent, 
The  merciful,  and  the  avenging  God ! 
Who,  prototype  of  human  misrule,  sits 
High  in  heaven's  realm,  upon  a  golden  throne, 
Even  like  an  earthly  king;  and  whose  dread  work, 
Hell,  gapes  forever  for  the  unhappy  slaves 
Of  fate,  whom  he  created  in  his  sport. 
To  triumph  in  their  torments  when  they  fell ! 
Earth   heard   the   name  ;   earth  trembled,  as  the 

smoke 
Of  his  revenge  ascended  up  to  heaven, 
Blotting  the  constellations;  and  the  cries 
Of  millions  butcher'd  in  sweet  confidence 
And  unsuspecting  peace,  even  when  the  bonds 
Of  safety  were  confirmed  by  wordy  oaths 
Sworn  in  his  dreadful  name,  rung  through  the  land  ; 
Whilst  innocent  babes  writhed  on    thy  stubborn 

spear, 
And  thou  didst  laugh  to  hear  the  mother's  shriek 
Of  maniac  gladness  as  the  sacred  steel 
Felt  cold  in  her  torn  entrails ! 

Religion  !  thou  wert  then  in  manhood's  prime  : 
But  age  crept  on  :  one  God  would  not  suffice 


74  QUEEN   MAB. 

For  senile  puerility ;  thou  framedst 

A  tale  to  suit  thy  dotage,  and  to  glut 

Thy  misery-thirsting  soul,  that  the  mad  fiend 

Thy  wickedness  had  pictured,  might  afford 

A  plea  for  sating  the  unnatural  thirst 

For  murder,  rapine,  violence,  and  crime, 

That  still  consumed  thy  being,  even  when 

Thou  heardst  the  step  of  fate ; — that  flames  might 

light 
Thy  funeral  scene,  and  the  shrill  horrent  shrieks 
Of  parents  dying  on  the  pile  that  burn'd 
To  light  their  children  to  thy  paths,  the.  roar 
Of  the  encircling  flames,  the  exulting  cries 
Of  thine  apostles,  loud  commingling  there, 

Might  sate  thy  hungry  ear 

Even  on  the  bed  of  death  ! 

But  now  contempt  is  mocking  thy  grey  hairs  ; 
Thou  art  descending  to  the  darksome  grave, 
Unhonoured  and  un  pi  tied,  but  by  those 
Whose  pride  is  passing  by  like  thine,  and  sheds, 
Like  thine,  a  glare  that  fades  before  the  sun 
Of  truth,  and  shines  but  in  the  dreadful  night 
That  long  has  lowered  above  the  ruined  world. 

Throughout  these  infinite  orbs  of  mingling  light, 

Of  which  yon  earth  is  one,  is  wide  diffused 

A  spirit  of  activity  and  life, 

That  knows  no  term,  cessation,  or  decay ; 

That  fades  not  when  the  lamp  of  earthly  life, 

Extinguished  in  the  dampness  of  the  grave, 

Awhile  there  slumbers,  more  than  when  the  babe 

In  the  dim  newness  of  its  being  feels 

The  impulses  of  sublunary  things, 

And  all  is  wonder  to  unpractised  sense  : 

But,  active,  stedfast,  and  eternal,  still 

Guides  the  fierce  whirlwind,  in  the  tempest  roars, 

Cheers  in  the  day,  breathes  in  the  balmy  groves, 

Strengthens  in  health,  and  poisons  in  disease  ; 


QUEEN    MAB.  7 

And  in  the  storm  of  change,  that  ceaselessly 
Rolls  round  the  eternal  universe,  and  shakes 
Its  undecaying  battlement,  presides, 
Apportioning  with  irresistible  law 
The  place  each  spring  of  its  machine  shall  fill ; 
So  that,  when  waves  on  waves  tumultuous  heap 
Confusion  to  the  clouds,  and  fiercely  driven 
Heaven's  lightnings  scorch  the  uprooted  ocean 

fords 
Whilst,  to  the  eye  of  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Lone  sitting  on  the  bare  and  shuddering  rock, 
All  seems  unlinked  contingency  and  chance  : 
No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitated  task, 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act. 
Even  the  minutest  molecule  of  light, 
That  in  an  April  sunbeam's  fleeting  glow 
Fulfils  its  destined,  though  invisible  work, 
The  universal  Spirit  guides  ;  nor  less 
When  merciless  ambition,  or  mad  zeal, 
Has  led  two  hosts  of  dupes  to  battle-field, 
That,  blind,   they   there   may  dig   each    other's 

graves 
And  call  the  sad  work  glory,  does  it  rule 
All  passions :  not  a  thought,  a  will,  an  act, 
No  working  of  the  tyrant's  moody  mind, 
Nor  one  misgiving  of  the  slaves  who  boast 
Their  servitude,  to  hide  the  shame  they  feel, 
Nor  the  events  enchaining  every  will, 
That  from  the  depths  of  unrecorded  time 
Have  drawn  all-influencing  virtue,  pass 
Unrecognized  or  unforeseen  by  thee, 
Soul  of  the  Universe  !  eternal  spring 
Of  life  and  death,  of  happiness  and  woe, 
Of  all  that  chequers  the  phantasmal  scene 
That  floats  before  our  eyes  in  wavering  light, 
Which  gleams  but  on  the  darkness  of  our  prison, 

Whose  chains  and  massy  walls 

"We  feel  but  cannot  see. 


7G  QUEEN   MAli. 

Spirit  of  Nature!  all-sufficing  Power. 
Necessity!  thou  mother  of  the  world! 
Unlike  the  God  of  human  error,  thou 
Bequiresl  qo  prayers  or  praisqp ;  the  caprice 

Of  man's  weak  will  belongs  no  more,  to  thee 

Than  <lo  the  changeful  passions  of  his  breast 

To  thy  unvarying  harmony  :  the  slave, 

Whose  horrible  lusts  spread  misery  o'er  the  world, 

And  the  good  man,  who  lifts,  with  virtuous  pride, 

His  being,  in  the  sight  of  happiness, 

That  springs  from  his  own  works;  the  poison-tree, 

Beneath  whose  shade  all  life  is  withered  up, 

And  the  fair  oak,  whose  leafy  dome  affords 

A  temple  where  the  vows  of  happy  love 

Are  register'd,  are  equal  in  thy  sight : 

No  love,  no  hate  thou  cherishest ;  revenge 

And  favoritism,  and  worst  desire  of  fame, 

Thou  knowest  not ;  all  that  the  wide  world  contains 

Are  but  thy  passive  instruments,  and  thou 

Regard'st  them  all  with  an  impartial  eye 

Whose  joy  or  pain  thy  nature  cannot  feel, 

Because  thou  hast  not  human  sense, 

Because  thou  art  not  human  mind. 

Yes  !  when  the  sweeping  storm  of  time 
Has  sung  its  death-dirge  o'er  the  ruined  fanes 
And  broken  altars  of  the  almighty  fiend 
Whose  name  usurps  thy  honours,  and  the  blood 
Through  centuries  clotted  there,  has  floated  down 
The  tainted  flood  of  ages,  shalt  thou  live 
Unchangeable  !  A  shrine  is  raised  to  thee, 

Which,  nor  the  tempest  breath  of  time, 

Nor  the  interminable  flood, 

Over  earth's  slight  pageant  rolling, 
Availeth  to  destroy.— 
The  sensitive  extension  of  the  world. 

That  wondrous  and  eternal  fane. 
Where  pain  and  pleasure,  good  and  evil  join, 
To  do  the  will  of  strong  necessity, 


QUEEN    JtfAB.  77 

And  life  in  multitudinous  shapes, 
Still  pressing  forward  where  no  term  can  be, 

Like  hungry  and  unresting  flame 
Curls  round  the  eternal  columns  of  its  strength. 


VII. 


I  was  an  infant  when  my  mother  went 

To  see  an  atheist  burned.     She  took  me  there  : 

The  dark-robed  priests  were  met  around  the  pile ; 

The  multitude  was  gazing  silently  ; 

And  as  the  culprit  passed  with  dauntless  mien, 

Tempered  disdain  in  his  unaltering  eye, 

Mixed  with  a  quiet  smile,  shone  calmly  forth : 

The  thirsty  lire  crept  round  his  manly  limbs ; 

His  resolute  eyes  were  scorched  to  blindness  soon 

His  death-pang  rent  my  heart !  the  insensate  mob 

Uttered  a  cry  of  triumph,  and  I  wept. 

Weep  not,  child  !  cried  my  mother,  for  that  man 

Has  said,  There  is  no  God. 


There  is  no  God  ! 
Nature  confirms  the  faith  his  death-groan  seaPd  : 
Let  heaven  and  earth,  let  man's  revolving  race, 
His  ceaseless  generations,  tell  their  tale  ; 
Let  every  part  depending  on  the  chain 
That  links  it  to  the  whole,  point  to  the  hand 
That  grasps  its  term !     Let  every  seed  that  falls, 
In  silent  eloquence  unfold  its  store 
Of  argument :  infinity  within, 
Infinity  without,  belie  creation  ; 
The  exterminable  spirit  it  contains 
Is  nature's  only  God ;  but  human  pride 
Is  skilful  to  invent  most  serious  names 
To  hide  its  ignorance. 


78  QUEEN    MAB. 

The  name  of  God 
Has  fenced  about  all  crime  with  holiness, 
Himself  the  creature  of  his  worshippers, 
Whose  names  and  attributes  and  passions  change, 
Seeva,  Buddh,  Foh,  Jehovah,  God,  or  Lord, 
Even  with  the  human  dupes  who  build  his  shrines, 
Still  serving  o'er  the  war-polluted  world 
For  desolation's  watch-word  ;  whether  hosts 
Stain  his  death-blushing  chariot  wheels,  as  on 
Triumphantly  they  roll,  whilst  Brahmins  raise 
A  sacred  hymn  to  mingle  with  the  groans ; 
Or  countless  partners  of  his  power  divide 
His  tyranny  to  weakness ;  or  the  smoke 
Of  burning  towns,  the  cries  of  female  helplessness, 
Unarmed  old  age,  and  youth,  and  infancy, 
Horribly  massacred,  ascend  to  heaven 
In  honour  of  his  name ;  or,  last  and  worst, 
Earth  groans  beneath  religion's  iron  age, 
And  priests  dare  babble  of  a  God  of  peace, 
Even  whilst  their  hands  are  red  with  guiltless  blood, 
Murdering  the  while,  uprooting  every  germ 
Of  truth,  exterminating,  spoiling  all, 
Making  the  earth  a  slaughter-house  ! 

O  Spirit !  through  the  sense 
By  which  thy  inner  nature  was  apprised 

Of  outward  shows  vague  dreams  have  roll'd, 
And  varied  reminiscences  have  waked 

Tablets  that  never  fade  ; 
All  things  have  been  imprinted  there, 
The  stars,  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 
Even  the  unshapeliest  lineaments 
Of  wild  and  fleeting  visions 

Have  left  a  record  there 

To  testify  of  earth. 

These  are  my  empire,  for  to  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep, 
And  fancy's  thin  creations  to  endow 


QUEEN    M^B.  lit 

With  manner,  being,  and  reality  : 
Therefore  a  wondrous  phantom,  from  the  dreams 
Of  human  error's  dense  and  purblind  faith, 
I  will  evoke,  to  meet  thy  questioning. 
Ahasuerus,  rise ! 

A  strange  and  woe-worn  wight 
Arose  beside  the  battlement, 

And  stood  unmoving  there. 
His  inessential  figure  cast  no  shade 

Upon  the  golden  floor ; 
His  port  and  mien  bore  mark  of  many  years, 
And  chronicles  of  untold  ancientness 
Were  legible  within  his  beamless  eye : 

Yet  his  cheek  bore  the  mark  of  youth ; 
Freshness  and  vigour  knit  his  manly  frame  ; 
The  wisdom  of  old  age  was  mingled  there 
With  youth's  primaeval  dauntlessness ; 

And  inexpressible  woe, 
Chasten'd  by  fearless  resignation,  gave 
An  awful  grace  to  his  all-speaking  brow. 

SPIRIT. 

Is  there  a  God  ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Is  there  a  God ! — ay,  an  almighty  God, 

And  vengeful  as  almighty  !     Once  his  voice 

Was  heard  on  earth :  earth  shudder'd  at  the  sound ; 

The  fiery-visaged  firmament  express'd 

Abhorrence,  and  the  grave  of  nature  yawn'd 

To  swallow  all  the  dauntless  and  the  good 

That  dared  to  hurl  defiance  at  his  throne, 

Girt  as  it  was  with  power.     None  but  slaves 

Survived, — cold-blooded  slaves,  who  did  the  work 

Of  tyrannous  omnipotence;  whose  souls 

No  honest  indignation  ever  urged 

To  elevated  daring,  to  one  deed 

Which  gross  and  sensual  self  did  not  pollute. 


80  QUEEN    MAB. 

These  slaves  built  temples  for  the  omnipotent  fiend, 
Gorgeous  and  vast:  the  costly  altars  smoked 
"With  human  blood,  and  hideous  paeans  rang 

Through  all  the  long-drawn   aisles.     A  murderer 

heard 
His  voice  in  Egypt,  one  whose  gifts  and  arts 
Had  raised  him  to  his  eminence  in  power, 
Accomplice  of  omnipotence  in  crime, 
And  confidant  of  the  all-knowing  one. 
These  were  Jehovah's  words. 

From  an  eternity  of  idleness 
I,  God,  awoke ;  in  seven  days'  toil  made  earth 
From  nothing ;  rested,  and  created  man  : 
I  placed  him  in  a  paradise,  and  there 
Planted  the  tree  of  evil,  so  that  he 
Might  eat  and  perish,  and  my  soul  procure 
"Wherewith  to  sate  its  malice,  and  to  turn. 
Even  like  a  heartless  conqueror  of  the  earth, 
All  misery  to  my  fame.     The  race  of  men 
Chosen  to  my  honour,  with  impunity 
May  sate  the  lusts  I  planted  in  their  heart. 
Here  I  command  thee  hence  to  lead  them  on, 
Until,  with  harden'd  feet,  their  conquering  troops 
"Wade  on  the  promised  soil  through  woman's  blood, 
And  make  my  name  be  dreaded  through  the  land. 
Yet  ever-burning  flame  and  ceaseless  woe 
Shall  be  the  doom  of  their  eternal  souls. 
With  every  soul  on  this  ungrateful  earth. 
Virtuous  or  vicious,  weak  or  strong. — even  all 
Shall  perish,  to  fulfil  the  blind  revenge 
(Which  you,  to  men,  call  justice)  of  their  God. 

The  murderer's  brow 
Quiver'd  with  horror. 

God  omnipotent. 
Is  there  no  mercy  ?  must  our  punishmer 
Be  endless '?  will  long  ages  roll  away. 


QUEEN    JIAIi.  81 

And  see  no  term  ?    Oh  !  wherefore  hast  thou  made 
In  mockery  and  wrath  this  evil  earth  ? 
Mercy  becomes  the  powerful — be  but  just : 

0  God !  repent  and  save. 

One  way  remains : 

1  will  beget  a  son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world ;  he  shall  arise 
In  an  unnoticed  corner  of  the  earth, 

And  there  shall  die  upon  a  cross,  and  purge 
The  universal  crime  ;  so  that  the  few 
On  whom  my  grace  descends,  those  who  are  mark'd 
As  vessels  to  the  honour  of  their  God, 
May  credit  this  strange  sacrifice,  and  save 
Their  souls  alive :  millions  shall  live  and  die, 
Who  ne'er  shall  call  upon  their  Saviour's  name, 
But,  unredeemed,  go  to  the  gaping  grave. 
Thousands  shall  deem  it  an  old  woman's  tale, 
Such  as  the  nurses  frighten  babes  withal : 
These  in  a  gulf  of  anguish  and  of  flame 
Shall  curse  their  reprobation  endlessly, 
Yet  tenfold  pangs  shall  force  them  to  avow, 
Even  on  their  beds  of  torment,  where  they  howl, 
My  honour,  and  the  justice  of  their  doom. 
What  then  avail  their  virtuous  deeds,  their  thoughts 
Of  purity,  with  radiant  genius  bright, 
Or  lit  with  human  reason's  earthly  ray  ? 
Many  are  called,  but  few  will  I  elect. 
Do  thou  my  bidding,  Moses  ! 

Even  the  murderer's  cheek 
Was  blanched  with  horror,  and  his  quivering  lips 
Scarce  faintly  uttered — O  almighty  one, 
I  tremble  and  obey ! 

O  Spirit !  centuries  have  set  their  seal 
On  this  heart  of  many  wounds,  and  loaded  brain, 
Since  the  Incarnate  came  :  humbly  he  came, 
Veiling  his  horrible  Godhead  in  the  shape 


82  QUEEN    MAB. 

Of  man,  scorned  by  the  world,  his  name  unheard, 
Save  by  the  rabble  of  his  native  town, 
Even  as  a  parish  demagogue.     He  Led 

The  crowd  ;  he  taught  them  justice,  truth,  and  peace, 

In  Bemblance  ;  but  he  lit  within  their  souls 

The  quenchless  flames  of  zeal,  and  blest  the  sword 

He  brought  on  earth  to  satiate  with  the  blood 

Of  truth  and  freedom  his  malignant  soul. 

At  Length  his  mortal  frame  was  led  to  death. 

I  stood  beside  him :  on  the  torturing  cross 

No  pain  assailed  his  unterrestrial  sense; 

And  yet  he  groaned.     Indignantly  I  summed 

The  massacres  and  miseries  which  his  name 

Had  sanctioned  in  my  country,  and  I  cried, 

Go  !  go  !  in  mockery. 

A  smile  of  godlike  malice  reillumed 

His  fading  lineaments. — I  go,  he  cried, 

But  thon  shalt  wander  o'er  the  unquiet  earth 

Eternally. The  dampness  of  the  grave 

Bathed  my  imperishable  front.     I  fell, 

And  long  lay  tranced  upon  the  charmed  soil. 

When  I  awoke  hell  burned  within  my  brain, 

Which  staggered  on  its  seat ;  for  all  around 

The  mouldering  relics  of  my  kindred  lay. 

Even  as  the  Almighty's  ire  arrested  them, 

And  in  their  various  attitudes  of  death 

My  murdered  children's  mute  and  eyeless  sculls 

Glared  ghastly  upon  me. 

But  my  soul, 
From  sight  and  sense  of  the  polluting  woe 
Of  tyranny,  had  long  learned  to  prefer 
Hell's  freedom  to  the  servitude  of  heaven. 
Therefore  I  rose,  and  dauntlessly  began 
My  lonely  and  unending  pilgrimage, 
Resolved  to  wage  unweariable  war 
With  my  almighty  tyrant,  and  to  hurl 
Defiance  at  his  impotence  to  harm 
Beyond  the  curse  I  bore.     The  very  hand 
That  barred  my  passage  to  the  peaceful  grave 


QUEEN    MAB.  83 

Has  crushed  the  earth  to  misery,  and  given 

Its  empire  to  the  chosen  of  his  slaves. 

These  have  I  seen,  even  from  the  earliest  dawn 

Of  weak,  unstable,  and  precarious  power : 

Then  preaching  peace,  as  now  they  practise  war, 

So,  when  they  turned  but  from  the  massacre 

Of  unoffending  infidels,  to  quench 

Their  thirst  for  ruin  in  the  very  blood 

That  flowed  in  their  own  veins,  and  pitiless  zeal 

Froze  every  human  feeling,  as  the  wife 

Sheathed  in  her  husband's  heart  the  sacred  steel, 

Even  whilst  its  hopes  were  dreaming  of  her  love  ; 

And  friends  to  friends,  brothers  to  brothers  stood 

Opposed  in  bloodiest  battle-field,  and  war. 

Scarce  satiable  by  fate's  last  death-draught  waged, 

Drunk  from  the  wine-press  of  the  Almighty's  wrath  ; 

Whilst  the  red  cross,  in  mockery  of  peace. 

Pointed  to  victory  !     When  the  fray  was  done, 

No  remnant  of  the  exterminated  faith 

Survived  to  tell  its  ruin,  but  the  flesh, 

With  putrid  smoke  poisoning  the  atmosphere, 

That  rotted  on  the  half-extinguished  pile. 

Yes  !    I  have  seen  God's  worshippers  unsheath 

The  sword  of  his  revenge,  when  grace  descended, 

Confirming  all  unnatural  impulses, 

To  sanctify  their  desolating  deeds  ; 

And  frantic  priests  waved  the  ill-omened  cross 

O'er  the  unhappy  earth  :  then  shone  the  sun 

On  showers  of  gore  from  the  upflashing  steel 

Of  safe  assassination,  and  all  crime 

Made  stingless  by  the  spirits  of  the  Lord, 

And  blood-red  rainbows  canopied  the  land. 

Spirit  !   no  year  of  my  eventful  being 

Has  passed  unstained"  by  crime  and  misery. 

Which  flows  from  God's  own  faith.     I've  marked 

his  slaves. 
With  tongues  whose  lies  are  venomous,  beguile 


84  QUEEN   MAP,. 

The  insensate  mob,  and,  whilst  one  hand  was  red 

With  murder,  feign  to  stretch  the  other  out 

For  brotherhood  and  peace;  and,  that  they  now 

Babble  of  love  and  mercy,  whilst  their  deeds 

Are  marked  with  all  the  narrowness  and  crime 

That  freedom's  young  arm  dares  not  vet  chastise, 

Reason  may  claim  our  gratitude,  who  now, 

Establishing  the  imperishable  throne 

Of  truth,  and  stubborn  virtue,  maketh  vain 

The  unpre vailing  malice  of  my  foe, 

Whose  bootless  rage  heaps  torments  for  the  brave, 

Adds  impotent  eternities  to  pain, 

Whilst  keenest  disappointment  racks  his  breast 

To  see  the  smiles  of  peace  around  them  play, 

To  frustrate  or  to  sanctify  their  doom. 

Thus  have  I  stood, — through  a  wild  waste  of  years 
Struggling  with  whirlwinds  of  mad  agony, 
Yet  peaceful,  and  serene,  and  self-enshrined, 
Mocking  my  powerless  tyrant's  horrible  curse 
With  stubborn  and  unalterable  will, 
Even  as  a  giant  oak,  which  heaven's  fierce  flame 
Had  scathed  in  the  wilderness,  to  stand 
A  monument  of  fadeless  ruin  there  ; 
Yet  peacefully  and  movelessly  it  braves 
The  midnight  conflict  of  the  wintry  storm, 
As  in  the  sun-light's  calm  it  spreads 
Its  worn  and  withered  arms  on  high 
To  meet  the  quiet  of  a  summer's  noon. 

The  Fairy  waved  her  wand : 
Ahasuerus  fled 
Fast  as  the  shapes  of  mingled  shade  and  mist, 
That  lurk  in  the  glens  of  a  twilight  grove, 
Flee  from  the  morning  beam  : 
The  matter  of  which  dreams  are  made 
Not  more  endowed  with  actual  life 
Than  this  phantasmal  portraiture 
Of  wandering  human  thought. 


QUEEN    MAB.  85 

VIII. 

The  present  and  the  past  thou  hast  beheld : 
It  was  a  desolate  sight.     Now  Spirit,  learn, 

The  secrets  of  the  future. — Time  ! 
Unfold  the  brooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes, 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity, 
Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  portioned  sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing  things, 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud. — Spirit,  behold 
Thy  glorious  destiny  ! 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came. 
Through  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal  veil, 
Hope  was  seen  beaming  through  the  mists  of  fear : 

Earth  was  no  longer  hell ; 

Love,  freedom,  health,  had  given 
Their  ripeness  to  the  manhood  of  its  prime, 

And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonious  to  the  planetary  spheres  : 

Then  dulcet  music  swelled 
Concordant  with  the  life-strings  of  the  soul ; 
It  throbbed  in  sweet  and  languid  beatings  there, 
Catching  new  life  from  transitory  death. — 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even, 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering  sea, 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 
And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by  fits : 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feeling 
That  sprang  from  these  sweet  notes, 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies 
With  mild  and  gentle  motion  calmly  flowed. 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came, — 
Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 
The  chosen  of  his  soul  in  happiness, 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose  woe  to  hhn  were  bitterer  than  death ; 


80  QUEEN    MAB. 

Sees  hefr  nnfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  <-}<'*, 
Which  like  two  stars  amid  the  heaving  main 

Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss. 

Then  in  her  triumph  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen  : 

I  will  not  call  the  ghost  of  ages  gone 

To  unfold  the  frightful  seerets  of  its  lore ; 

The  present  now  is  past, 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reality  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.     To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep, 
Space,  matter,  time,  and  mind.     Futurity 
Exposes  now  its  treasure  ;  let  the  sight 
Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
O  human  Spirit  !  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace, 
And,  'midst  the  ebb  and  flow  of  human  things, 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain  still, 
A  light-house  o'er  the  wild  of  dreary  waves. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss ; 

Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were  hurled 

By  everlasting  snow-storms  round  the  poles, 

Where  matter  dared  not  vegetate  nor  live, 

But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 

Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are  unloosed ; 

And  fragrant  zephyrs  there  from  spicy  isles 

Unfile  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 

Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand. 

Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoings  sweet 

To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing  groves, 

And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature  there. 

Those  deserts  of  immeasurable  sand, 
Whose  aae-collected  fervours  scarce  allowed 


QUEEN   MAB.  87 

A  bird  to  live,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring, 
Where  the  shrill  chirp  of  the  green  lizard's  love 
Broke  on  the  sultry  silentness  alone, 
Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady  woods, 
Cornfields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages ; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 
A  savage  conqueror  stained  in  kindred  blood, 
A  tigress  sating  with  the  flesh  of  lambs 
The  unnatural  famine  of  her  toothless  cubs, 
While  shouts  and  bowlings  through  the  desert  rang; 
Sloping  and  smooth  the  daisy-spangled  lawn, 
Offering  sweet  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 
To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door, 
Sharing  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 
That  comes  to  lick  his  feet. 

Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a  weary  sail 
Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain, 
Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning  rise, 
Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer  spread 
Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright  sea, 
Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest- waves 
So  long  have  mingled  with  the  gusty  wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes, 
But  vocal  to  the  sea-bird's  harrowing  shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing  storm  ; 
Now  to  the  sweet  and  many  mingling  sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond. 
Those  lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles  begem, 
With  lightsome  clouds  and  shining  seas  between, 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss, 
Whilst  green  woods  over-canopy  the  wave, 
Which  like  a  toil-worn  labourer  leaps  to  shore, 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  fiowrets  there. 

All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life : 


88  QUEEN   MAB. 

The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her  care, 
Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  perfectne 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 

Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad  : 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 
Glows  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the  st renin  : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of  heaven, 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever-verdant  trees  ; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair, 
And  autumn  proudly  bears  her  matron  grace, 
Kindling-  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  spring, 
Whose  virgin  bloom  beneath  the  ruddy  fruit 
Reflects  its  tint,  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood  : 

There  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  dreadless  kid ;  his  claws  are  sheathed, 

His  teeth  are  harmless,  custom's  force  has  made 

His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  lamb. 

Like  passion's  fruit,  the  nightshade's  tempting  bane 

Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  bestows  : 

All  bitterness  is  past;  the  cup  of  joy 

Unmingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim, 

And  courts  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 

But  chief,  ambiguous  man,  he  that  can  know 

More  misery,  and  dream  more  joy  than  all ; 

Whose  keen  sensations  thrill  within  his  breast 

To  mingle  with  a  loftier  instinct  there, 

Lending  their  power  to  pleasure  and  to  pain, 

Yet  raising,  sharpening,  and  refining  each ; 

Who  stands  amid  the  ever-varying  world, 

The  burthen  or  the  glory  of  the  earth ; 

He  chief  perceives  the  change  ;  his  being  notes 

The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 

Each  movement  of  its  progress  on  his  mind. 


QUEEN-    MAB.  89 

Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar  night 
Lowers  o'er  the  snow-clad  rocks  and  frozen  soil, 
Where  scarce  the  hardiest  herb  that  braves  the  frost 
Basks  in  the  moonlight's  ineffectual  glow. 
Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darkened  with  the  night ; 
His  chilled  and  narrow  energies,  his  heart, 
Insensible  to  courage,  truth,  or  love, 
His  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame, 
Marked  him  for  some  abortion  of  the  earth, 
Fit  compeer  of  the  bears  that  roamed  around, 
Whose  habits  and  enjoyments  were  his  own  : 
His  life  a  feverish  dream  of  stagnant  woe, 
Whose  meagre  wants,  but  scantily  fulfilled, 
Apprised  him  ever  of  the  joyless  length 
"Which  his  short  being's  wretchedness  had  reached; 
His  death  a  pang  which  famine,  cold,  and  toil, 
Long  on  the  mind,  whilst  yet  the  vital  spark 
Clung  to  the  body  stubbornly,  had  brought : 
All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 
Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law ; 
One  curse  alone  was  spared — the  name  of  God. 

Xor,  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms  of  day 

With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and  flame, 

Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving  atmosphere 

Scattered  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  fed 

Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 

Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest,  and  disease, 

"Was  man  a  nobler  being;  slavery 

Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood-stained  dust ; 

Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power, 

Which,  all  internal  impulses  destroying, 

Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade  ; 

Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for  their  gold, 

And  dragged  to  distant  isles,  where  to  the  sound 

Of  the  flesh-mangling  scourge,  he  does  the  work 

Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth, 

Which  doubly  visits  on  the  tyrants'  heads 

The  long-protracted  fulness  of  their  woe  ; 


90  (|I'EI'..V     MAIi. 

Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery, 
To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that  burning  ran 
Where  kings  first  Leagued  againsl  the  rights  of  men, 
And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of  God. 

Even  where  the  milder  zone  afforded  man 

A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there. 

Blighting  his  being  with  unnumbered  ills, 

Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire  ;  nor  truth  till  late 

Availed  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 

That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory  waved 

Her  snowy  standard  o'er  this  favoured  clime  : 

There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of  slaves, 

The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery. 

The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 

The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adorning 

This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and  mind; 

Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  impulses, 

Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 

All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 

Him  (still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pursuing. 

"Which  from  the  exhaustless  store  of  human  weal 

Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind)  the  thoughts  that  rise 

In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 

With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 

The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age, 

And  man.  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient  scene 

Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands 

Immortal  upon  earth  :  no  longer  now 

He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face, 

And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  flesh, 

"Which,  still  avenging  nature's  broken  law, 

Kindled  all  putrid  humours  in  his  frame, 

All  evil  passions,  and  all  vain  belief. 

Hatred,  despair,  and  loathing  in  his  mind, 

The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease,  and  crime. 

No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 


QUEEN    MAB.  01 

That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing  away, 

Flee  from  the  form  of  man ;  but  gather  round, 

And  prune  their  sunny  feathers  on  the  hands 

Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  sport 

Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their  play. 

All  things  are  void  of  terror :  man  has  lost 

His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 

An  equal  amidst  equals  :  happiness 

And  science  dawn,  though  late,  upon  the  earth ; 

Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates  the  frame  ; 

Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here, 

Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there  ;  - 

Whilst  each  unfettered  o'er  the  earth  extends 

Its  all-subduing  energies,  and  wields 

The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there  ; 

Whilst  every  shape  and  mode  of  matter  lends 

Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind, 

Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem  of  truth 

To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace. 


IX. 

O  happy  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  ! 
To  which  those  restless  souls  that  ceaselessly 
Throng  through  the  human  universe,  aspire  ; 
Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope ! 
Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly-working  will ! 
Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space  and  time, 
Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  forever  there  : 
Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place  ! 
Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and  crime, 
Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance,  dare  not  come  : 
O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate  dreams; 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness, 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have  there  entwined 
Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place  of  bliss, 
Where  friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part  no  more. 


92  QTJEEX    MAB. 

Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will, 
The  product  of  all  action  :  and  the  souls 
That  by  the  paths  of  an  aspiring  change 
Have  reached  thy  haven  or  perpetual  peace, 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That  framed  the  fabric  of  thy  perfectness. 

Even  Time,  the  conqueror,  fled  thee  in  his  fear; 

That  hoary  giant,  who,  in  lonely  pride, 

So  long  had  ruled  the  world,  that  nations  fell 

Beneath  his  silent  footstep.     Pyramids, 

That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the  tide 

Of  human  things,  his  storm-breath  drove  in  sand 

Across  that  desert  where  their  stones  survived 

The  name  of  him  whose  pride  had  heaped  them 

there. 
Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp, 
Was  but  the  mushroom  of  a  summer  day, 
That  his  light- winged  footstep  pressed  to  dust : 
Time  was  the  king  of  earth  :  all  things  gave  way 
Before  him,  but  the  fixed  and  virtuous  will, 
The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense, 
That  mocked  his  fury  and  prepared  his  fall. 

Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawned  the  morn  of  love ; 
Long  lav  the  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  the  scene, 
Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  rolled  away : 
First,  crime  triumphant  o'er  all  hope  careered 
Unblushing,  undisguising,  bold  and  strong ; 
Whilst  falsehood,  tricked  in  virtue's  attributes, 
Long  sanctified  all  deeds  of  vice  and  woe, 
Till,  done  by  her  own  venomous  sting  to  death, 
She  left  the  moral  world  without  a  law, 
No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless  wing. 
Then  steadily  the  happy  ferment  worked  ; 
Reason  was  free  :  and  wild  though  passion  went 
Through  tangled  glens  and  wood-embosomed  meads, 
Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest  flowers, 
Yet,  like  the  bee  returning  to  her  queen, 


QUEEN    MAB.  93 

She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's  brow, 
Who  meek  and  sober,  kissed  the  sportive  ehild, 
No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 

Mild  was  the  slow  necessity  of  death : 

The  tranquil  Spirit  failed  beneath  its  grasp. 

Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear, 

Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 

And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 

The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 

Died  in  the  human  frame,  and  purity 

Blest  with  all  gifts  her  earthly  worshippers. 

How  vigorous  then  the  athletic  form  of  age  ! 

How  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow  ! 

"Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride,  nor  care, 

Had  stamped  the  seal  of  grey  deformity 

On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 

How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 

Which  meek-eyed  courage   decked  with   freshest 

grace  ; 
Courage  of  soul,  that  dreaded  not  a  name, 
And  elevated  will,  that  journeyed  on 
Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fearlessness, 
With  virtue,  love,  and  pleasure,  hand  in  hand. 
Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  freedom's  self, 
And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 
The  kindred  sympathies  of  human  souls, 
Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law. 
Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses 
In  nature's  primal  modesty  arose, 
And  with  undoubting  confidence  disclosed 
The  growing  longings  of  its  dawning  love, 
Unchecked  by  dull  and  selfish  chastity, 
That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous, 
Who  pride  themselves  in  senselessness  and  frost 
No  longer  prostitution's  venomed  bane 
Poisoned  the  springs  of  happiness  and  life  ; 
Woman  and  man,  in  confidence  and  love, 
Equal  and  free  and  pure,  together  trod 


94  QUEEN    BffAB. 

The  mountain-paths  of  virtue,  which  no  more 
Were  stained   with  blood  from  many  a  pilgrim's 
feet. 

Then,  where,  through  distant  ages,  long  in  pride 
The  palace  of  the  monarch-slave  had  mocked 

Famine's  taint  groan,  and  penury's  silent  tear, 

A  heap  of  crumbling  ruins  stood,  and  threw 

Year  after  year  their  stones  upon  the  field, 

Wakening  a  lonely  echo  ;  and  the  leaves 

Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost  tower 

Usurped  the  royal  ensign's  grandeur,  shook 

In  the  stern  storm  that  swayed  the  topmost  tower, 

And  whispered  strange  tales  in  the  whirlwind's  ear. 

Low  through  the  lone  cathedral's  roofless  aisles 

The  melancholy  winds  a  death-dirge  sung : 

It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 

The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 

So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal ! 

Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its  wall. 

A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of  death 

To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 

To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 

Are  busy  of  its  life :  to-morrow,  worms 

In  silence  and  in  darkness  seize  their  prey. 

Within  the  massy  prison's  mouldering  courts, 

Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  played, 

Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent  brows 

With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower, 

That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom  ; 

The  ponderous  chains,  and  gratings  of  strong  iron, 

There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone. 

That  mingled  slowly  with  their  native  earth  : 

There  the  broad  beam  of  day.  which  feebly  once 

Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 

With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely  shone 

On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness  : 

No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse  despair 


QUEEN    MAB.  !)5 

Pealed  through  the  echoing  vaults,  but  soothing 

notes 
Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds 
And  merriment  were  resonant  around. 
These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind : 
Their  elements,  wide  scattered  o'er  the  globe, 
To  happier  shapes  were  moulded,  and  became 
Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses  : 
Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and  earth, 
Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  low. 
Was  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and  grew 
Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the  scene 
Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 
Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.     My  task  is  done  : 
Thy  lore  is  learned.     Earth's  wonders  are  thine 

own, 
With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they  bring. 
My  spells  are  past :  the  present  now  recurs. 
Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

Yet,  human  Spirit !  bravely  hold  thy  course, 

Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 

The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 

For  birth  and  life  and  death,  and  that  strange  state 

Before  the  naked  soul  has  found  its  home, 

All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 

The  restless  Avheels  of  being  on  their  way, 

Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infinite  life, 

Bicker  and  burn  to  gain  their  destined  goal. 

For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 

Of  outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced  shape 

New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may  lend ; 

Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 

Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe ; 

Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 


96  QUEEN    MAB. 

That  loads  to  azure  isles  and  beaming  skies, 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  0  Spirit!  fearlessly  bear  on: 

Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose  on  its  stalk, 
Though  frosts  may  blight  the  freshness  of  its  bloom, 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo  the  earth, 
To  teed  with  kindliest  dews  its  favourite  flower, 
That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  darksome  glens, 
Lighting  the  greenwood  with  its  sunny  smile. 

Fear  not  then,  Spirit,  death's  disrobing  hand  ; 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake, 
So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch  burns ; 
'Tis  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour, 
The  transient  gulf-dream  of  a  startling  sleep. 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue :  earth  has  seen 
Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaffold  bloom, 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels  there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which  this  scene 
Of  linked  and  gradual  being  has  confirmed  ? 
Whose  stingiugs  bade  thy  heart  look  further  still, 
When  to  the  moonlight  walk,  by  Henry  led, 
Sweetly  and  sadly  thou  didst  talk  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  thy  breast, 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed, 
Or  tamely  crouching  to  the  tyrant's  rod, 
Whose  iron  thongs  are  red  with  human  gore  V 
Never  :  but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime, 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains. 
Watching  its  wanderings  as  a  friend's  disease  : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would  defy 
Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave  its  sternest  will, 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the  world. 


QUEEN    MA1J.  97 

Thou  art  sincere  and  good ;  of  resolute  mind, 
Free  from  heart-withering  custom's  cold  control, 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's   pride   and  meanness  could  not  vanquish 

thee, 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received  :  virtue  shall  keep 
Thy  footsteps  iu  the  path  that  thou  hast  trod, 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go.  happy  one  !  and  give  that  bosom  joy, 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 

The  Fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the  car, 

That  rolled  beside  the  battlement, 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

Again  the  enchanted  steeds  were  yoked, 

Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden  way. 

Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew  : 

The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  rolled 

Around  the  Fairy's  palace-gate 
Lessened  by  slow  degrees,  and  soon  appeared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  narrower  way. 

Earth  floated  then  below  : 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there  ; 
The  Spirit  then  descended  : 
The  restless  coursers  pawed  the  ungenial  soil, 
Snuffed  the  gross  air,  and  then,  their  errand  done, 
Unfurled  their  pinions  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then ; 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  Ianthe's  frame  : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed ; 

vol.  i.  "  7 


98  QUEEN    MAIL 

Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love, 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 


NOTE  ON  QUEEN  MAB. 

BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

Shelley  was  eighteen  when  he  wrote  "  Queen  Mab :  ** 
he  never  published  it.  When  it  was  written,  he  had  come 
to  the  decision  that  he  was  too  young  to  be  a  "judge  of 
controversies;"  and  he  was  desirous  of  acquiring  "that 
sobriety  of  spirit  which  is  the  characteristic  of  true  hero- 
ism." But  he  never  doubted  the  truth  or  utility  of  his  opin- 
ions ;  and  in  printing  and  privately  distributing  "  Queen 
Mab  "  he  believed  that  he  should  further  their  dissemina- 
tion, without  occasioning  the  mischief  either  to  others  or 
himself  that  might  arise  from  publication.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  he  would  himself  have  admitted  it  into  a  collec- 
tion of  his  works.  His  severe  classical  taste,  refined  by 
the  constant  study  of  the  Greek  poets,  might  have  discov- 
ered defects  that  escape  the  ordinary  reader,  and  the 
change  his  opinions  underwent  in  many  points,  would 
have  prevented  him  from  putting  forth  the  speculations 
of  his  boyish  days.  But  the  poem  is  too  beautiful  in 
itself,  and  far  too  remarkable  as  the  production  of  a  boy 
of  eighteen,  to  allow  of  its  being  passed  over. 

The  opening  of  "  Queen  Mab  "  is  the  most  striking  part 
of  the  poem.  It  is  the  boy's  dream  of  beauty  and  love. 
The  gentle  loveliness  of  the  sleeping  Ianthe,  the  fairy 
elegance  of  Queen  Mab,  the  sublime  description  of  the 
voyage  through  the  universe,  with  the  final  view  from  the 
battlements  of  the  skyey  palace,  form  a  poem  in  them- 
selves of  surpassing  beauty.  They  bear  the  impress  of 
earnest,  daring,  fearless  youth.  Shelley's  angelic  nature 
breathes  in  every  fine,  and  these  cantos  must  always  be 
preeminently  valued  by  those  happy  few  who  understand 
and  love  him. 

A  series  of  articles  was  published  in  the  "  New  Monthly 
Magazine,"  during  the  autumn  of  the  year  1832,  written 
by  a  man  of  great  talent,  a  fellow  collegian  and  warm 
friend  of  Shelley :  they  describe  admirably  the  state  of  his 
mind  during  his  collegiate  life.  Inspired  with  ardour  for 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge ;  endowed  with  the  keenest 


100  \o  I  K    OH    QUEEN    MAI',. 

sensibility,  and  with  the  fortitude  of  a  martyr,  Shelley 
came  among  hjg  fellow-creatures,  congregated  for  the  pur- 
poses of  education,  like  ;t  spirit  from  another  sphere, 
delicately  organized  for  the  rough  treatment  man 
towards  man,  especially  in  the  Beason  of  youth;  and  too 
resolute  in  carrying  out  his  own  sense;  of  good  and  justice 
not  to  become  a  victim.  To  a  devoted  attachment  to 
those  he  loved,  he  added  a  determined  resistance  to  op- 
pression. Refusing  to  fag  at  Eton,  he  was  treated  with 
revolting  cruelty  by  masters  and  boys :  this  roused,  in- 
stead of  taming  his  spirit,  and  he  rejected  the  duty  of 
obedience,  when  it  was  enforced  by  menaces  and  punish- 
ment. To  aversion  to  the  society  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
such  as  he  found  them  when  collected  together  in  socie- 
ties, where  one  egged  on  the  other  to  acts  of  tyranny,  was 
joined  the  deepest  sympathy  and  compassion :  while  the 
attachment  he  felt  for  individuals  and  the  admiration  with 
which  he  regarded  their  powers  and  their  virtues,  led  him 
to  entertain  a  high  opinion  of  the  perfectibility  of  human 
nature,  and  he  believed  that  all  could  reach  the  highest 
grade  of  moral  improvement,  did  not  the  customs  and 
prejudices  of  society  foster  evil  passions,  and  excuse  evil 
actions. 

The  oppression  which,  trembling  at  every  nerve  yet 
resolute  to  heroism,  it  was  his  ill  fortune  to  encounter  at 
school  and  at  college,  led  him  to  dissent  in  all  things  from 
those  whose  arguments  were  blows,  whose  faith  appeared 
to  engender  blame  and  hatred.  "  During  my  existence," 
he  wrote  to  a  friend  in  1812,  "  I  have  incessantly  specu- 
lated, thought  and  read."  His  readings  were  not  always 
well  chosen :  among  them  were  the  works  of  the  French 
philosophers ;  as  far  as  metaphysical  argument  went,  he 
temporarily  became  a  convert.  At  the  same  time,  it  was 
the  cardinal  article  of  his  faith,  that  if  men  were  but 
taught  and  induced  to  treat  their  fellows  with  love,  charity, 
and  equal  rights,  this  earth  would  realize  Paradise.  He 
looked  upon  religion  as  it  is  professed,  and  above  all,  prac- 
tised, as  hostile,  instead  of  friendly,  to  the  cultivation  of 
those  virtues  which  would  make  men  brothers. 

Can  this  be  wondered  at?  At  the  age  of  seventeen, 
fragile  in  health  and  frame,  of  the  purest  habits  in  morals, 
full  of  devoted  generosity  and  universal  kindness,  glowing 
with  ardour  to  attain  wisdom,  resolved  at  every  personal 
sacrifice  to  do  right,  burning  with  a  desire  for  affection 
and  sympathy, — he  was  treated  as  a  reprobate,  cast  forth 
as  a  criminal. 

The  cause  was.  that  he  was  sincere;  that  he  believed 


NO  IK    UN    QUEEN    MAH.  101 

the  opinions  which  he  entertained,  to  be  true ;  and  he 
loved  truth  with  a  martyr's  love:  he  was  ready  to  sacri- 
fice station  and  fortune',  and  his  dearest  affections  at  its 
shrine.  The  sacrifice  was  demanded  from,  and  made  by, 
a  youth  of  seventeen.  It  is  a  singular  fact  in  the  history 
of  society  in  the  civilized  nations  of  modern  times,  that 
no  false  step  is  so  irretrievable  as  one  made  in  early 
youth.  Older  men,  it  is  true,  when  they  oppose  their  fel- 
lows, and  transgress  ordinary  rules,  cany  a  certain  pru- 
dence or  hypocrisy  as  a  shield  along  with  them.  But 
youth  is  rash ;  nor  can  it  imagine,  while  asserting  what  it 
believes  to  be  true,  and  doing  what  it  believes  to  be  right, 
that  it  should  be  denounced  as  vicious,  and  pursued  as  a 
criminal. 

Shelley  possessed  a  quality  of  mind  which  experience 
has  shown  me  to  be  of  the  rarest  occurrence  among  human 
beings:  this  was  his  ■unicorldliness.  The  usual  motives 
that  rule  men,  prospects  of  present  or  future  advantage, 
the  rank  and  fortune  of  those  around,  the  taunts  and  cen- 
sure.?, or  the  praise  of  those  who  were  hostile  to  him,  had 
no  influence  whatever  over  his  actions,  and  apparently 
none  over  his  thoughts.  It  is  difficult  even  to  express  the 
simplicity  and  directness  of  purpose  that  adorned  him. 
Some  few  might  be  found  in  the  history  of  mankind,  and 
some  one  at  least  among  his  own  friends,  equally  disinter- 
ested and  scornful,  even  to  severe  personal  sacrifices,  of 
every  baser  motive.  But  no  one,  I  believe,  ever  joined 
this  noble  but  passive  virtue  to  equal  active  endeavour's, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  friends  and  mankind  in  general,  and 
to  equal  power  to  produce  the  advantages  he  desired. 
The  world's  brightest  gauds,  and  its  most  solid  advan- 
tages, were  of  no  worth  in  his  eyes,  when  compared  to 
the  cause  of  what  he  considered  truth,  and  the  good  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  Born  in  a  position  which,  to  his  inex- 
perienced mind,  afforded  the  greatest  facilities  to  practise 
the  tenets  he  espoused,  he  boldly  declared  the  use  he 
would  make  of  fortune  and  station,  and  enjoyed  the  be- 
lief that  he  should  materially  benefit  his  fellow-creatures 
by  his  actions ;  while,  conscious  of  surpassing  powers  of 
reason  and  imagination,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should, 
even  while  so  young,  have  believed  that  his  written 
thoughts  would  tend  to  disseminate  opinions,  which  he 
believed  conducive  to  the  happiness  of  the  human  race. 

If  man  were  a  creature  devoid  of  passion,  he  might 
have  said  and  done  all  this  with  quietness.  But  he  was 
too  enthusiastic,  and  too  full  of  hatred  of  all  the  ills  he 
witnessed,  not  to  scorn  danger.     Various  disappointments 


102  NOTE    o.\    QUEEN    MAJi. 

tortured,  but  could  not  tame,  his  soul.  The  more  enmity 
he  met,  the  more  earnestly  he  became  attached  to  his 
peculiar  views,  and  hostile  to  those  of  the  men  who  per- 
secuted him. 

He  was  animated  to  greater  zeal  by  compassion  for  his 
fellow-creatures.  His  sympathy  was  excited  by  the 
misery  with  which  the  world  is  bur-ting.  He  witnessed 
the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and  was  aware  of  the  evils  of 
ignorance.  He  desired  to  induce  every  rich  man  to  despoil 
himself  of  superfluity,  and  to  create  a  brotherhood  of  prop- 
erty and  service,  and  was  ready  to  be  the  first  to  lay 
down  the  advantages  of  his  birth.  He  was  of  too  uncom- 
promising a  disposition  to  join  any  party.  He  did  not  in 
his  youth  look  forward  to  gradual  improvement:  nay,  in 
those  days  of  intolerance,  now  almost  forgotten,  it  seemed 
as  easy  to  look  forward  to  the  sort  of  millennium  of  free- 
dom and  brotherhood,  which  he  thought  the  proper  state 
of  mankind,  as  to  the  present  reign  of  moderation  and 
improvement.  HI  health  made  him  believe  that  his  race 
would  soon  be  run ;  that  a  year  or  two  was  all  he  had  of 
life.  He  desired  that  these  years  should  be  useful  and 
illustrious.  He  saw,  in  a  fervent  call  on  his  fellow  crea- 
tures to  shai'e  alike  the  blessings  of  the  creation,  to  love 
and  serve  each  other,  the  noblest  work  that  life  and  time 
permitted  him.    In  this  spirit  he  composed  Queen  Mab. 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  wonderful  and  wild  in  literature; 
but  had  not  fostered  these  tastes  at  their  genuine  sources 
— the  romances  and  chivalry  of  the  middle  ages ;  but  in 
the  perusal  of  such  Gei-man  works  as  were  current  in 
those  days.  Under  the  influence  of  these,  he,  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  wrote  two  short  prose  romances  of  slender 
merit.  The  sentiments  and  language  were  exaggerated, 
the  composition  imitative  and  poor.  He  wrote  also  a 
poem  on  the  subject  of  Ahasuerus — being  led  to  it  by  a 
German  fragment  he  picked  up,  dirty  and  torn,  in  Lin- 
coln's-inn-Fields.  This  fell  afterwards  into  other  hands 
— and  was  considerably  altered  before  it  was  printed. 
Our  earlier  English  poetry  was  almost  unknown  to  him. 
The  love  and  knowledge*  of  nature  developed  by  Words- 
worth — the  lofty  melody  and  mysterious  beauty  of  Cole- 
ridge's poetry— and  the  wild  fantastic  machinery  and 
gorgeous  scenery  adopted  by  Southey,  composed  his  fa- 
vourite reading ;  "the  rhythm  of  "  Queen  Mab  "  was  founded 
on  that  of"  Thalaba,"  and  the  first  few  lines  bear  a  striking 
resemblance  in  spirit,  though  not  in  idea,  to  the  opening 
of  that  poem.  His  fex*tile  imagination,  and  ear,  tuned  to 
the  finest  sense  of  harmony,  preserved  him  from  imita- 


NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAli.  103 

tion.  Another  of  his  favourite  books  was  the  poem  of 
"  Gebir,"  by  Walter  Savage  Landor.  From  his  boyhood  he 
had  a  wonderful  facility  of  versification  which  he  carried 
into  another  language,  and  his  Latin  school  verses  were 
composed  with  an  ease  and  correctness  that  procured  for 
him  prizes — and  caused  him  to  be  resorted  to  by  all  his 
friends  for  help.  He  was,  at  the  period  of  writing  "  Queen 
Mab,"  a  great  traveller  within  the  limits  of  England,  Scot- 
land, and  Ireland.  His  time  was  spent  among  the  loveliest 
scenes  of  these  countries.  Mountain  and  lake  and  forest 
were  his  home ;  the  phenomena  of  Nature  were  his  favour- 
ite study.  He  loved  to  inquire  into  their  causes,  and  was 
addicted  to  pursuits  of  natural  philosophy  and  chemistry, 
as  far  as  they  could  be  carried  on,  as  an  amusement. 
These  tastes  gave  truth  and  vivacity  to  his  descriptions, 
and  warmed  his  soul  with  that  deep  admiration  for  the 
wonders  of  Nature  which  constant  association  with  her 
inspired. 

He  never  intended  to  publish  "  Queen  Mab  "  as  it  stands ; 
but  a  few  years  after,  when  printing  "  Alastor,"  he  extract- 
ed a  small  portion  which  he  entitled  "  The  Daemon  of  the 
World:"  in  this  he  changed  somewhat  the  versification 
— and  made  other  alterations  scarcely  to  be  called  im- 
provements. 

I  extract  the  invocation  of  "  Queen  Mab  "  to  the  Soul  of 
Ianthe,  as  altered  in  "  The  Daemon  of  the  World."  I  give 
it  as  a  specimen  of  the  alterations  made.  It  well  charac- 
terizes his  own  state  of  mind : 


INVOCATION. 

Maiden,  the  world's  supremest  spirit 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
Folds  all  thy  memory  doth  inherit 
From  ruin  of  divinest  things, 
Feelings  that  lure  thee  to  betray. 
And  light  of  thoughts  that  pass  away. 

For  thou  hast  earned  a  mighty  boon ; 

The  truths  which  wisest  poets  see 
Dimly,  thy  mind  may  make  its  own, 
Kewarding  its  own  majesty, 

Entranced  in  some  diviner  mood 
Of  self-oblivious  solitude. 

Custom  and  faith  and  power  thou  spurnest, 
From  hate  and  fear  thy  heart  is  free ; 


1U4  NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAI!. 

Ardent  and  pure  as  day  thou  burnest 
For  dark  and  <■<>]<!  mortality; 
A  living  light  to  cheer  it  long, 
The  w.itcli-finv-  erf  the  world  among. 

Therefore,  from  nature's  inner  shrine, 

Where  gods  and  fiends  in  worship  bend, 
Majestic  Spirit,  be  it  thine 

The  flame  to  seize,  the  veil  to  rend, 
Where  the  vast  snake  Eternity 
In  charmed  sleep  doth  ever  lie. 

All  that  inspires  thy  voice  of  love, 
Or  speaks  in  thy  unclosing  eyes, 
Or  through  thy  frame  doth  burn  and  more, 
Or  think,  or  feel,  awake,  arise  ! 
Spirit,  leave  for  mine  and  me 
Earth's  unsubstantial  mimicry ! 

Some  years  after,  when  in  Italy,  a  bookseller  published 
an  edition  of  "  Queen  Mab  "as  it  originally  stood.  Shelley 
was  hastily  written  to  by  his  friends,  under  the  idea  that, 
deeply  injurious  as  the  mere  distribution  of  the  poem  had 
proved,  the  publication  might  awaken  fresh  persecutions. 
At  the  suggestion  of  these  friends  he  wrote  a  letter  on  the 
subject,  printed  in  "The  Examiner"  newspaper — with 
which  I  close  this  history  of  his  earliest  work. 


"to  the  editor  of  'the  examiner.' 

"  Sir, 

"  Having  heard  that  a  poem,  entitled  '  Queen  Mab,'  has  been 
surreptitiously  published  in  London,  and  that  legal  proceedings 
have  been  instituted  against  the  publisher,  I  request  the  favour 
of  your  insertion  of  the  following  explanation  of  the  affair,  as  it 
relates  to  me. 

;'  A  poem,  entitled  '  Queen  Mab,'  was  written  by  me,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  I  dare  say  in-  a  sufficiently  intemperate  spirit — 
but  even  then  was  not  intended  for  publication,  and  a  few  copies 
only  were  struck  off,  to  be  distributed  among  my  personal  friends. 
I  have  not  seen  this  production  for  several  3-ears ;  I  doubt  not 
but  that  it  is  perfectly  worthless  in  point  of  literary  composition ; 
and  that  in  all  that  concerns  moral  and  political  speculation,  as 
well  as  in  the  subtler  discriminations  of  metaphysical  and  religious 
doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude  and  immature.  I  am  a  devoted 
enemy  to  religious,  political,  and  domestic  oppression;  and  I 
regret  this  publication  not  so  much  from  literary  vanity,  as  be- 
cause I  fear  it  is  better  fitted  to  injure  than  to  serve  the  sacred 
cause  of  freedom.  I  have  directed  my  solicitor  to  apply  to  Chan- 
cery for  an  injunction  to  restrain  the  sale ;  but  after  the  prece- 
dent of  Mr   Souther's  '  Wat  Tyler,"  (a  poem,  written,  I  believe, 


NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB.  1U5 

at  the  same  age.  and  with  the  same  unreflecting  enthusiasm,) 
with  little  hope  of  success. 

;>  Whilst  I  exonerate  myself  from  all  share  in  having  divulged 
opinions  hostile  to  existing  sanctions,  under  the  form,  whatever 
it  may  be.  which  they  assume  in  this  poem ;  it  is  scarcely  neces- 
sary for  me  to  protest  against  the  system  of  inculcating  the  truth 
of  Christianity  or  the  excellence  of  Monarchy,  however  true  or 
however  excellent  they  may  be,  by  such  equivocal  arguments  as 
confiscation  and  imprisonment,  and  invective  and  slander,  and 
the  insolent  violation  of  the  most  sacred  ties  of  nature  and 
society. 

•Sir. 

"  I  am  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant. 
"  Percy  B.  Shelley. 

"  Pisa,  June  22, 1821." 


ALASTOR; 

OR, 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


Xondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  quaerebaiii  quid  ama- 
rem  amans  amare.  Confess.  St.  August. 


PREFACE. 

The  poem  entitled  "  Alastor,"  may  be  considered  as 
allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  situations  of  the 
human  mind.  It  represents  a  youth  of  uncorrupted  feel- 
ings and  adventurous  genius,  led  forth  by  an  imagination 
inflamed  and  purified  through  familiarity  with  all  that  is 
excellent  and  majestic,- to  the  contemplation  of  the  uni- 
verse. He  drinks  deep  of  the  fountains  of  knowledge,  and 
is  still  insatiate.  The  magnificence  and  beauty  of  the 
external  world  sinks  profoundly  into  the  frame  of  his  con- 
ceptions, and  affords  to  their  modifications  a  variety  not  to 
be  exhausted.  So  long  as  it  is  possible  for  his  desires  to 
point  towards  objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he 
is  joyous,  and  tranquil,  and  self-possessed.  But  the  period 
arrives  when  these  objects  cease  to  suffice.  His  mind  is 
at  length  suddenly  awakened,  and  thirsts  for  intercourse 
with  an  intelligence  similar  to  itself.  He  images  to  him- 
self the  Being  whom  he  loves.  Conversant  with  specula- 
tions of  the  sublimest  and  most  perfect  natures,  the  vision 
in  which  he  embodies  his  own  imaginations,  unites  all  of 
wonderful,  or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the  poet,  the  phi- 
losopher, or  the  lover,  could  depicture.  The  intellectual 
faculties,  the  imagination,  the  functions  of  sense,  have 
their  respective  requisitions  on  the  sympathy  of  cor- 
responding powers  in  other  human  beings.  The  Poet  is 
represented  as  uniting  these  requisitions,  and  attaching 
them  to  a  single  image.  He  seeks  in  vain  for  a  prototype 
of  his  conception.  Blasted  by  his  disappointment,"  he 
descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to  actual  men. 
The  Poet's  self-centred  seclusion  was  avenged  by  the 
furies  of  an  irresistible  passion  pursuing  him  to  speedy 
ruin.  But  that  Power  which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the 
world  with  sudden  darkness  and  extinction,  by  awaken- 
ing them  to  too  exquisite  a  perception  of  its  influences, 
dooms  to  a  slow  and  poisonous  decay  those  meaner  spirits 
that  dare  to  abjure  its  dominion.  Their  destiny  is  more 
abject  and  inglorious,  as  their  delinquency  is  more  con- 
temptible and  pernicious.  They  who,  deluded  by  no 
generous  error,  instigated  by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful 
knowledge,  duped  by  no  illustrious  superstition,  loving 


110  PREFACE. 

nothing  on  this  earth,  and  cherishing  no  hopes  beyond, 
yet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with  their  kind,  rejoicing 
neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning  with  human  grief; 
these,  and  such  as  they,  have  their  apportioned  curse. 
They  languish,  because  none  feel  with  them  their  common 
nature.  They  are  morally  dead.  They  are  neither 
friends,  nor  lovers,  nor  fathers  nor  citizens  of  the  world, 
nor  benefactors  of  their  country.  Among  those  who  at- 
tempt to  exist  without  human  sympathy,  the  pure  and 
tender-hearted  perish  through  the  intensity  and  passion 
of  their  search  after  its  communities,  when  the  vacancy 
of  their  spirit  suddenly  makes  itself 'felt.  All  else  selfish, 
blind,  and  torpid,  are  "those  unforeseeing  multitudes  who 
constitute,  together  with  their  own,  the  lasting  misery 
and  loneliness  of  the  world.  Those  who  love  not  their 
fellow-beings,  live  unfruitful  lives,  and  prepare  for  their 
old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

The  good  die  first, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer's  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

December  14,  1815. 


ALASTOR 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  ! 
If  our  great  Mother  have  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine  ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness  ; 
If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare  boughs  ; 
If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she  breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  me  ; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred ; — then  forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favour  now  ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 
Favour  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only ;  I  have  watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee, 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost, 


112  ALA8TOH :    OR, 

Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours, 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  still- 
ness, 
Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchymisl 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope, 
Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears, 
Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge  :  and,  though  ne'er  yet 
Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary  ; 
Enough  from  incommunicable  dream, 
And     twilight     phantasms,    and     deep    noonday 

thought, 
Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I  wait  thy  breath,  Great  Parent,  that  my  strain 
May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea. 
And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness  ; 
A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden  decked 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress  wreath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep  : 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh  : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sang  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eves. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  113 

The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence  too,  enamoured  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air, 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips;  and  all  of  great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  past,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home, 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps  ;  and  he  has  bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He.  like  her  shadow,  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke  :  or  where  bitumen  lakes, 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves, 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs, 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear  shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 
To  love  and  wonder  ;  he  would  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 

VOL.    I.  8 


114  ALASTOi:  ;   OR, 

Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustics  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps,  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  was)'- 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and*  whatsoe'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx, 
Dark  Ethiopia  on  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the   world's   youth,   through  the  long  burning 

day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when  the 

moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his  food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps : — 
Enamoured,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak  her  love  : — and  watched  his  nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lipfe 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  115 

Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose  :  then,  when  red  morn 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold  home, 
Wildered,  and  wan,  and  panting,  she  returned. 

The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabie 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste, 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way  ; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cachmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  vet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a  veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music  long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-coloured  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 
Himself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  fire  :  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stilled  in  tremulous  sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos  :  her  fair  hands 
Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 
Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 


11G  alastor;  or, 

Its  bursting  burthen  :  at  the  sound  he  turned, 
And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own  life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  \<il 
Of  woven  wind  ;  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of  night, 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched,  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerly. 
His  strong  heart  sank  and  sickened  with  ex 
Of  love.     He  reared  his   shuddering   limbs,    and 

quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 
Her  panting  bosom : — she  drew  back  awhile, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 
Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision  ;  sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course'. 
Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock,  he  started  from  his  trance — 
The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 
Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 
The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 
Spread  round  him  where  he  stood.     Whither  have 

fled 
The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bower 
Of  yesternight?      The    sounds   that   soothed   his 

sleep, 
The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 
The  joy,  the  exultation  ?     His  wan  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 
As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 
The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 
A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 
Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 
Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade ; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
Were  limbs  and  bi'eath  and  beino-  intertwined 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  117 

Thus  treacherously  ?     Lost,  lost,  forever  lost, 

In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep, 

That  beautiful  shape  !     Does  the  dark  gate  of  death 

Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 

O  Sleep  ?    Does  the  bright  arch  of  rainbow  clouds, 

And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake, 

Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 

While  death's  blue  vault  with  loathliest  vapours 

hung, 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 
Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 
Conduct,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms  ? 
This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his  heart, 
The  insatiate  hope  which  it  awakened,  stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered  dream, 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 
Into  the  darkness. — As  an  eagle  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 
Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 
Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm  and 

cloud, 
Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind  flight 
O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness  :  thus  driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream, 
Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night, 
Through   tangled    swamps   and    deep    precipitous 

dells, 
Startling  with  careless  step  the  moonlight  snake, 
He  fled.     Red  morning  dawned  upon  his  flight, 
Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 
Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wandered  on, 
Till  vast  Aornos,  seen  from  Petra's  steep, 
Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud ; 
Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated  tombs 


1  18  axastor  ;  OR, 

Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 

Their  wasting  'lust,  wildly  he  wandered  on, 

Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours, 

Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 

That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 

And  now  his  limbs  were  lean  ;  his  scattered  hair, 

Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering, 

Sung  dirges  in  the  wind  ;  his  listless  hand 

I  lung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered  skin  ; 

Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 

As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 

From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 

Who  ministered  with  human  charity 

His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering  awe 

Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 

Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 

That   spectral   form,    deemed  that   the    Spirit   of 

wind 
With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 
Disturbing  not  the  drifted  snow,  had  paused 
In  his  career  :  the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes, 
To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a  dream 
Of  after  times  ;  but  youthful  maidens,  taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 
That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false  names 
Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  pallid  hand 
At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears,  the  path 
Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was  there, 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong  wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  119 

His  eyes  pursued  its  flight : — "  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird  !  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
Where   thy   sweet   mate   will    twine    her   downy 

neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air.  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?  "     A  gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  asleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 
With   doubtful   smile    mocking  its    own    strange 

charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts,  he  looked  around : 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a  sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny :  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept   strongly  from   the   shore,    blackening   the 

waves. 
Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 
Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat, 


120  ALASTOR  ;   OR, 

And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 

Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 

Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 

The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept  it  on, 

With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force, 

Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 

The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  higher  still 

Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the  tempest': 

scourge, 
Like  serpents  straggling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  running  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 
Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came  on, 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow  hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep  ; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wrreaths  her  braided  locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day  ; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Hushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm ;  still  fled,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river ; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave  ; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.      Safely  fled — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  121 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose  :  and  lo  !  the  ethereal  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and  the  waves, 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly, 
Rage  and  resound  forever. — Who  shall  save  '? — 
The  boat  fled  on, — the  boiling  torrent  drove, — 
The  crags   closed  round  with  black   and   jagged 

arms. 
The  shattered  mountain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.     A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed.     "  Vision  and  Love  !  " 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.     Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long." 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.     Daylight  shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow  ; 
Now.  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 
The  boat  moved  slowly.      Where  the   mountain, 

riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm ; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant  arms 
In  ifirkness  over  it.     I'  the  midst  was  left, 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud. 
A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm, 


122  ALASTOR J    OR, 

Seized  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream, 

With  dizzy  swiftness,  round,  and  round,  and  round, 

Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 

Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve, 

Where,  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky  bank, 

The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 

Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 

Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering.     Shall  it  sink 

Down  the  abyss  ?     Shall  the  reverting  stress 

Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it  ? 

Now  shall  it  fall '?     A  wandering  stream  of  wind, 

Breathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the  expanded 

sail, 
And,  lo  !  with  gentle  motion  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 
Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails,  and,  hark  ! 
The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar, 
With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods 
Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and  leave 
A  little  .space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 
Forever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes. 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 
Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pensive  task, 
Which  nought  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton  wind, 
Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 
Had  e'er  disturbed  before.     The  Poet  longed 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair, 
But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned, 
And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 
In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,  and  shadowy 

frame 
Had  yet  performed  its  ministry :  it  hung 
Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 
Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 
Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  123 

Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There,  huge  caves, 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  aery  rocks 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  forever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt,  some  bank, 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate — the  oak, 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms, 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous  and  pale.   Like  restless  serpents,  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starr'd  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants'  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent  wiles, 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs 
L'niting  their  close  union  ;  the  woven  leaves 
Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day. 
And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.     Soft  mossy  lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells, 
Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooms 
Minute,  yet  beautiful.      One  darkest  glen 
Sends  from   its  woods   of  musk-rose,  twined  with 

jasmine, 
A  soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite 
To  some  more  lovely  mystery.    Through  the  dell. 
Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades, 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half-seen ;  beyond,  a  well, 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 


124  .w.astor;    or, 

And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms  ; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 
Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect,  floating  motionless, 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.     His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain  ;  as  the  human  heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.    He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.     A  Spirit  seemed 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 
Borrow'd  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery; — 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 
And  rippling  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuming 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were  all  that  was, — only — when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness^ — two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 
And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  125 

Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss,  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced  ;  like  childhood  laughing  as  it  went : 
Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings 

crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — "  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  imagest  my  life.     Thy  darksome  stillness, 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs, 
Thy  searchless  fountain,  and  invisible  course 
Have  each  their  type  in  me :    And  the  wide  sky, 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
"What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell   where   these    living    thoughts   reside,   when 

stretched 
Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 
I'  the  passing  wind  !  " 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs.    As  one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move ;  yet,  not  like  him, 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and 

stemmed 
The  struggling  brook  :  tall  spires  of  windlestrae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 


126  alastor;   or, 

And  naught  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines 
Branchless  and  blasted, clenched  with  grasping  roots 

The  unwilling  soil.     A  gradual  change  was  here, 
Yet  ghastly.     For,  as  fast  years  flow  away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  :  so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.     Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ;  and  there 
Fretted  a  path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  its  wintry  speed.     On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms, 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs,  and  yawning  caves, 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.      Lo  !  where  the  pass  expands 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags. 
To  overhang  the  world :  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracks  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-coloured  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene, 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity, 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.     A  pine, 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause, 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl 
The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song.  Avhilst  the  broad  river, 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  127 

Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void, 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 
Yet  the  gray  precipice,  and  solemn  pine 
And  torrent,  were  not  all ; — one  silent  nook 
Was  there.  Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  mountain, 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth,  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms, 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  forever  green, 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore, 
In  wanton  sport,  those  bright  leaves,  whose  decay, 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale, 
Rival  the  pride  of  summer.     'Tis  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.     One  step, 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude  : — one  voice 
Alone  inspired  its  echoes  ; — even  that  voice 
Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds, 
And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould, 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss. 
Commit  the  colours  of  that  varying  cheek, 
That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  drooping  eyes. 

The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low,  and  poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.     Yellow  mist 
Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness  :  not  a  star 


128  alastor;  ou, 

Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard;  the  very  winds, 

Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipiee 

Slept,  clasped  m  his  embrace. — O,  storm, of  death! 

Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night: 

And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 

Guiding  its  irresistible  career 

In  thy  devastating  omnipotence, 

Art  king  of  this  frail  world,  from  the  red  field 

Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 

The  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 

Of  innocence,  the  scaffold  and  the  throne, 

A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruin  calls 

His  brother  Death.     A  rare  and  regal  prey 

He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  world  ; 

Glutted  with  which  thou  may'st  repose,  and  men 

Go  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creeping  worms, 

Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 

The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when  they  breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.    He  did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.     Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did  rest, 
Diffused  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm  ; — and  thus  he  lay, 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.     Hope  and  despair, 
The  torturers,  slept :  no  mortal  pain  or  fear 
Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 
And  his  own  being  unalloyed  by  pain, 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breathing  there 


THE    SPIRIT    OK    SOLITUDE.  129 

At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling : — his  last  sight 

Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 

Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 

With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seemed 

To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 

It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 

Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood, 

That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 

With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still : 

And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 

Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 

Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 

The  stagnate  night : — till  the  minutest  ray 

Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in  his  heart. 

It  paused — it  fluttered.   But  when  heaven  remained 

Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 

An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 

As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 

Even  as  a  vapour  fed  with  golden  beams 

That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 

Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame — 

No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity — 

A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 

The  breath  of  heaven  did  wander — a  bright  stream 

Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a  dream 

Of  youth,  which  night  and  time  have  quenched 

forever, 
Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremembered  now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth  gleam 
With  bright  flowers,  and  the  wintry  boughs  exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !     O,  that  God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  would  concede  the  chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained,  who  now, 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world  wanders  forever, 
Lone  as  incarnate  death  !     O,  that  the  dream 

VOL.  i.  9 


130      ALASTOR  ;   OR,  THE    SPIRIT    <W     SOLITUDE. 

Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 

For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 

Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 

Of  this  so  lovely  world  !     But  thou  art  fled 

Like  some  frail  exhalation,  which  the  dawn 

Robes  in  its  golden  beams, — ah  !  thou  hast  fled  ! 

The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful, 

The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heartless  things 

Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 

And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 

From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 

In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 

Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice  : — but  thou  art  fled — 

Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 

Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 

Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas  ! 

Now  thou  art  not.     Upon  those  pallid  lips 

So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes 

That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 

Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 

Be  shed — not  even  in  thought.  Nor,  when  those  hues 

Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 

Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 

In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 

Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 

Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's  woe 

Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 

Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  eloquence, 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 

To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade. 

It  is  a  woe  "  too  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 

Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 

Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 

Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 

The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope  ; 

But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 

Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  tilings. 

Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


NOTE    ON   ALASTOR. 


BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

"Alastok"  is  written  in  a  very  different  tone  from 
"  Queen  Mab."  In  the  latter,  Shelley  poured  out  all  the 
cherished  speculations  of  his  youth — all  the  irrepressible 
emotions  of  sympathy,  censure,  and  hope,  to  which  the 
present  suffering,  and  what  he  considers  the  proper  destiny 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  gave  birth.  "Alastor,"  on  the 
contrary,  contains  an  individual  interest  only.  A  very 
few  years,  with  their  attendant  events,  had  checked  the 
ardour  of  Shelley's  hopes,  though  he  still  thought  them 
well  grounded,  and  that  to  advance  their  fulfilment  was 
the  noblest  task  man  could  achieve. 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  speak  of  the  mis- 
fortunes that  chequered  his  life.  It  will  be  sufficient  to 
say,  that  in  all  he  did,  he  at  the  time  of  doing  it  believed 
himself  justified  to  his  own  conscience;  while  the  various 
ills  of  poverty  and  loss  of  friends  brought  home  to  him 
the  sad  realities  of  life.  Physical  suffering  had  also  con- 
siderable influence  in  causing  him  to  turn  his  eyes  in- 
ward; inclining  him  rather  to  brood  over  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  his  own  soul,  than  to  glance  abroad,  and 
to  make,  as  in  "  Queen  Mab,"  the  whole  universe  the 
object  and  subject  of  his  song.  In  the  spring  of  1815,  an 
eminent  physician  pronounced  that  he  was  dying  rapidly 
of  a  consumption;  abscesses  were  formed  on  his  lungs, 
and  he  suffered  acute  spasms.  Suddenly  a  complete 
change  took  place ;  and  though  through  life  he  was  a 
martyr  to  pain  and  debility,  every  Symptom  of  pulmonary 
disease  vanished.  His  nerves,  which  nature  had  formed 
sensitive  to  an  unexampled  degree,  were  rendered  still 
more  susceptible  by  the  state  of  his  health. 

As  soon  as  the  peace  of  1814  had  opened  the  Continent, 
he  went  abroad.  He  visited  some  of  the  more  magnificent 
scenes  of  Switzerland,  and  returned  to  England  from 
Lucerne,  by  the  Reuss  and  the  Rhine.  This  river  navi- 
gation enchanted  him.  In  his  favourite  poem  of  "  Thai- 
aba,"  his  imagination  had  been  excited  by  a  description 


132  NOTE    ON   ALASTOK. 

of  such  a  voyage.  In  the  summer  of  1815,  after  a  tour 
along  the  southern  coast  of  Devonshire  and  a  visit  to 
Clifton,  he  rented  a  house  on  Bishopgate  Heath,  on  the 
borders  of  Windsor  Forest,  where  he  enjoyed  several 
months  of  comparative  health  and  tranquil  happiness. 
The  later  summer  months  were  warm  and  dry.  Accom- 
panied by  a  few  friends,  he  visited  the  source  of  the 
Thames,  making  the  voyage  in  a  wherry  from  Windsor 
to  Crichlade.  His  beautiful  stanzas  in  the  churchyard  of 
Lechlade  were  written  on  that  occasion.  "Alastor"  was 
composed  on  his  return.  He  spent  his  days  under  the 
oak-shades  of  Windsor  Great  Park ;  and  the  magnificent 
woodland  was  a  fitting  study  to  inspire  the  various 
descriptions  of  forest  scenery  we  find  in  the  poem. 

None  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  characteristic  than 
this.  The  solemn  spirit  that  reigns  throughout,  the  wor- 
ship of  the  majesty  of 'nature,  the  broodings  of  a  poet's 
heart  in  solitude — the  mingling  of  the  exulting  joy  which 
the  various  aspect  of  the  visible  universe  inspires,  with 
the  sad  and  struggling  pangs  which  human  passion  im- 
parts, give  a  touching  interest  to  the  whole.  The  death 
which  he  had  often  contemplated  during  the  last  months 
as  certain  and  near,  he  here  represented  in  such  colours 
as  had,  in  his  lonely  musings,  soothed  his  soul  to  peace. 
The  versification  sustains  the  solemn  spirit  which  breathes 
throughout:  it  is  peculiarly  melodious.  The  poem  ought 
rather  to  be  considered  didactic  than  narrative:  it  was 
the  outpouring  of  his  own  emotions,  embodied  in  the 
purest  form  he  could  conceive,  painted  in  the  ideal  hues 
which  his  brilliant  imagination  inspired,  and  softened  by 
the  recent  anticipation  of  death. 


THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 

A     POEM. 

IN   TWELVE   CANTOS. 


Occur  6e  (3pordv  e&vor  dyXatacr  dnrofiea^a 

liepalvet  npbc.  eoxarov 
Yi'Aoov  vaval  6'  ovte  TzeCjbg  icbv  av  evpoig 
'Ef  VTreppopiuv  ay&va  ftavfiaTav  666v. 

Ucvd.  Ilvd.  x. 


PREFACE. 


The  Poem  which  I  now  present  to  the  world,  is  an 
attempt  from  which  I  scarcely  dare  to  expect  success, 
and  in  which  a  writer  of  established  fame  might  fail  with- 
out disgrace.  It  is  an  experiment  on  the  temper  of  the 
public  mind,  as  to  how  far  a  thirst  for  a  happier  condition 
of  moral  and  political  society  survives,  among  the  en- 
lightened and  refined,  the  tempests  which  have  shaken 
the  age  in  which  we  live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist  the 
harmonv  of  metrical  language,  the  ethereal  combinations 
of  the  fancy,  the  rapid  and  subtle  transitions  of  human 

?assion,  all  those  elements  which  essentially  compose  a 
oem,  in  the  cause  of  a  liberal  and  comprehensive  moral- 
ity ;  and  in  the  view  of  kindling  within  the  bosoms  of  my 
readers,  a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of  lib- 
erty and  justice,  that  faith  and  hope  in  something  good, 
which  neither  violence,  nor  misrepresentation,  nor  preju- 
dice, can  ever  totally  extinguish  among  mankind. 

For  this  purpose*  I  have  chosen  a  story  of  human 
passion  in  its  most  universal  character,  diversified  with 
moving  and  romantic  adventures,  and  appealing,  in  con- 
tempt of  all  artificial  opinions  or  institutions,  to  the  com- 
mon sympathies  of  every  human  breast.  I  have  made  no 
attempt  to  recommend"  the  motives  which  I  would  sub- 
stitute for  those  at  present  governing  mankind,  by 
methodical  and  systematic  argument.  I  would  only 
awaken  the  feelings  so  that  the  reader  should  see  the 
beauty  of  true  virtue,  and  be  incited  to  those  inquiries 
which  have  led  to  my  moral  and  political  creed,  and  that 
of  some  of  the  sublimest  intellects  in  the  world.  The 
Poem,  therefore,  (with  the  exception  of  the  first  Canto, 
which  is  purely  introductory,)  is  narrative,  not  didactic. 
It  i^  a  succession  of  pictures"  illustrating  the  growth  and 
progress  of  individual  mind  aspiring  after  excellence,  and 
devoted  to  the  love  of  mankind ;  its  influence  in  refining 
and  making  pure  the  most  daring  and  uncommon  im- 
pulses of  the  imagination,  the  understanding,  and  the 
senses ;  its  impatience  at  "  all  the  oppressions  which  are 
done  under  the  sun;"  its  tendency  to  awaken  public 
hope  and  to  enlighten  and  improve  mankind;  the  rapid 


136  THE    HE  VOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

effects  of  the  application  of  that  tendency;  the  awakening 
of  an  immense  nation  from  their  slavery  and  degradation 
to  a  true  sense  of  moral  dignity  and  freedom;  the  blood- 
less dethronement  of  their  oppressors,  and  the  unveiling 
of  the  religious  frauds  by  which  they  had  been  deluded 
into  submission;  the  tranquillity  of  successful  patriotism, 
and  the  universal  toleration  and  benevolence  of  true  phi- 
lanthropy; the  treachery  and  barbarity  of  hired  soldiers; 
vice  not  the  object  of  punishment  and  hatred,  but  kind- 
ness and  pity;  the  faithlessness  of  tyrants:  the  confed- 
eracy of  the"  Rulers  of  the  World,  and  the  restoration  of 
the  expelled  Dynasty  by  foreign  arms;  the  massacre  and 
extermination  of  the  Patriots,  and  the  victory  of  estab- 
lished power;  the  consequences  of  legitimate  despotism, 
civil  war,  famine,  plague,  superstition,  and  an  utter  ex- 
tinction of  the  domestic  affections ;  the  judicial  murder 
of  the  advocates  of  Liberty;  the  temporary  triumph  of 
oppression,  that  secure  earnest  of  its  final  and  inevitable, 
fall ;  the  transient  nature  of  ignorance  and  error,  and  the 
eternity  of  genius  and  virtue.  Such  is  the  series  of  delin- 
eations of  which  the  Poem  consists.  And  if  the  lofty 
passions  with  which  it  has  been  my  scope  to  distinguish 
this  story,  shall  not  excite  in  the  reader  a  generous  im 
pulse,  an  ardent  thirst  for  excellence,  an  interest  profound 
and  strong,  such  as  belongs  to  no  meaner  desires — let  not 
the  failure  be  imputed  to  a  natural  unfitness  for  human 
sympathy  in  these  sublime  and  animating  themes.  It  is 
the  business  of  the  Poet  to  communicate  to  others  the 
pleasure  and  the  enthusiasm  arising  out  of  those  images 
and  feelings,  in  the  vivid  presence  of  which  within  his 
own  mind,  consists  at  once  his  inspiration  and  his 
reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic  transport,  seized 
upon  all  classes  of  men  during  the  excesses  consequent 
upon  the  French  Revolution,  is  gradually  giving  place  to 
sanity-  It  has  ceased  to  be  believed,  that  whole  genera- 
tions* of  mankind  ought  to  consign  themselves  to  a  hope- 
less inheritance  of  ignorance  and  misery,  because  a  nation 
of  men  who  had  been  dupes  and  slaves  for  centuries,  were 
incapable  of  conducting  themselves  with  the  wisdom  and 
tranquillity  of  freemen  so  soon  as  some  of  their  fetters 
were  partially  loosened.  That  their  conduct  could  not 
have  been  marked  by  any  other  characters  than  ferocity 
and  thoughtlessness,  is  the  historical  fact  from  which 
liberty  derives  all  its  recommendations,  and  falsehood  the 
worst' features  of  its  deformity.  There  is  a  reflux  in  the 
tide  of  human  things  which  bears  the  shipwrecked  hopes 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  137 

of  men  into  a  secure  haven,  after  the  storms  are  past. 
Methinks,  those  who  now  live  have  survived  an  age  of 
despair. 

The  French  Revolution  may  be  considered  as  one  of 
those  manifestations  of  a  general  state  of  feeling  among 
civilized  mankind,  produced  by  a  defect  of  correspondence 
between  the  knowledge  existing  in  society  and  the  im- 
provement or  gradual  abolition  of  political  institutions. 
The  year  1788  may  be  assumed  as  the  epoch  of  one  of  the 
most'  important  crises  produced  by  this  feeling.  The 
sympathies  connected  with  that  event  extended  to  every 
bosom.  The  most  generous  and  amiable  natures  were 
those  which  participated  the  most  extensively  in  these 
sympathies.  But  such  a  degree  of  unmingled'  good  was 
expected,  as  it  was  impossible  to  realize.  If  the  Revolu- 
tion had  been  in  every  respect  prosperous,  then  misrule 
and  superstition  would  lose  half  their  claims  to  our  abhor- 
rence, as  fetters  which  the  captive  can  unlock  with  the 
slightest  motion  of  his  fingers,  and  which  do  not  eat  with 
poisonous  rust  into  the  soul.  The  revulsion  occasioned 
by  the  atrocities  of  the  demagogues  and  the  reestablish- 
ment  of  successive  tyrannies  in  France  was  terrible,  and 
felt  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  civilized  world.  Could 
they  listen  to  the  plea  of  reason  who  had  groaned  under 
the  calamities  of  a  social  state,  according  to  the  provisions 
of  which,  one  man  riots  in  luxury  whilst  another  famishes 
for  want  of  bread  ?  Can  he  who  the  day  before  was  a 
trampled  slave,  suddenly  become  liberal-mmded,  forbear- 
ing, and  independent?  This  is  the  consequence  of  the 
habits  of  a  state  of  society  to  be  produced  by  resolute 
perseverance  and  indefatigable  hope,  and  long-suffering 
and  long-believing  courage,  and  the  systematic  efforts  of 
generations  of  men  of  intellect  and  virtue.  Such  is  the 
lesson  which  experience  teaches  now.  But  on  the  first 
reverses  of  hope  in  the  progress  of  French  liberty,  the 
sanguine  eagerness  for  good  overleapt  the  solution  of  these 
questions,  and  for  a  time  extinguished  itself  in  the  unex- 
pectedness of  their  result.  Thus  many  of  the  most  ardent 
and  tender-hearted  of  the  worshippers  of  public  good 
have  been  morally  ruined,  by  what  a  partial  glimpse  of 
the  events  they  deplored,  appeared  to  show  as  the  melan- 
choly desolation  of  all  their  cherished  hopes.  Hence 
gloom  and  misanthropy  have  become  the  characteristics 
of  the  asre  in  which  we  live,  the  solace  of  a  disappoint- 
ment that  unconsciously  finds  relief  only  in  the  wilful 
exaggeration  of  its  own  despair.  This  influence  has 
tainted  the  literature  of  the  age  with  the  hopelessness  of 


138  mi;  revolt  of  islam. 

the  minds  from  which  it  flows.  Metaphysics,*  rind 
inquiries  into  moral  and  political  science,  have  become 
little  else  than  vain  attempts  to  revive  exploded  super- 
stitions,  or  sophisms  like  those  t  of  Mr.  Malthas,  calcu- 
lated to  lull  the  oppressors  of  mankind  into  a  security  of 
everlasting  triumph.  Our  works  of  fiction  and  poetry 
have  been  overshadowed  by  the  same  infectious  gloom. 
But  mankind  appear  to  me  to  be  emerging  from'  their 
trance.  1  am  aware,  methinks,  of  a  slow,  gradual,  silent 
change.  In  that  belief  1  have  composed  the  following 
Poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  competition  with  our 
greatest  contemporary  Poets.  Yet  I  am  unwilling  to 
tread  in  the  footsteps  of  any  who  have  preceded  me.  I 
have  sought  to  avoid  the  imitation  of  any  style  of  lan- 
guage or  versification  peculiar  to  the  original  mind>  of 
which  it  is  the  character,  designing  that  even  if  what  I 
have  produced  be  worthless,  it  should  still  be  properly 
my  own.  Nor  have  I  permitted  any  system  relating  to 
mere  words,  to  divert  the  attention  of  the  reader  from 
whatever  interest  I  may  have  succeeded  in  creating,  to 
my  own  ingenuity  in  contriving  to  disgust  them  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  criticism.  1  have  simply  clothed  my 
thoughts  in  what  appeared  to  me  the  most  obvious  and 
appropriate  language.  A  person  familiar  with  nature, 
and  with  the  most  celebrated  productions  of  the  human 
mind,  can  scarcely  err  in  following  the  instinct,  with 
respect  to  selection  of  language,  produced  by  that  famil- 
iarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted  for  a  Poet, 
without  which,  genius  and  sensibility  can  hardly  fill  the 
circle  of  their  capacities.  No  education  indeed  can 
entitle  to  this  appellation  a  dull  and  unobservant  mind, 
or  one,  though  neither  dull  nor  unobservant,  in  which 
the  channels  of  communication  between  thought  and 
expression  have  been  obstructed  or  closed.  How  far  it 
is  my  fortune  to  belong  to  either  of  the  latter  classes,  I 

*  I  ought  to  except  Sir  W.  Drummond's  ''Academical  Ques- 
tions;" a  volume  of  very  acute  and  powerful  metaphysical 
criticism. 

t  It  is  remarkable,  as  a  symptom  of  the  revival  of  public  hope, 
that  Mr.  Malthus  has  assigned,  in  the  later  editions  of  his  work, 
an  indefinite  dominion  to  moral  restraint  over  the  principle  of 
population.  This  concession  answers  all  the  inferences  from  his 
doctrine  unfavourable  to  human  improvement,  and  reduces  the 
i;  Essay  on  Population,"  to  a  commentary  illustrative  of  the 
unanswerableness  of  "  Political  Justice. "' 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  139 

cannot  know.  I  aspire  to  be  something  better.  The 
circumstances  of  my  accidental  education  have  been 
favourable  to  this  ambition.  I  have  been  familiar  from 
boyhood  with  mountains  and  lakes,  and  the  sea,  and  the 
solitude  of  forests :  Danger,  which  sports  upon  the  brink 
of  precipices,  has  been  my  playmate.  I  have  trodden 
the  glaciers  of  the  Alps,  and  lived  under  the  eye  of  Mont 
Blanc.  I  have  been  a  wanderer  among  distant  fields.  I 
have  sailed  down  mighty  rivers,  and  seen  the  sun  rise 
and  set,  and  the  stars  come  forth,  whilst  I  have  sailed 
night  and  day  down  a  rapid  stream  among  mountains.  I 
have  seen  populous  cities,  and  have  watched  the  passions 
which  rise  and  spread,  and  sink  and  change,  amongst 
assembled  multitudes  of  men.  I  have  seen  the  theatre 
of  the  more  visible  ravages  of  tyranny  and  war,  cities 
and  villages  reduced  to  scattered  groups  of  black  and 
roofless  houses,  and  the  naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished 
upon  their  desolated  thresholds.  I  have  conversed  with 
living  men  of  genius.  The  poetry  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome,  and  modern  Italy,  and  our  own  country,  has  been 
to  me  like  external  nature,  a  passion  and  an  enjoyment. 
Such  are  the  sources  from  which  the  materials  for  the 
imagery  of  my  Poem  have  been  drawn.  I  have  consid- 
ered Poetry  in  its  most  comprehensive  sense,  and  have 
read  the  Poets  and  the  Historians,  and  the  Metaphysi- 
cians *  whose  writings  have  been  accessible  to  me,  and 
have  looked  upon  the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery  of 
the  earth  as  common  sources  of  those  elements  which  it 
is  the  province  of  the  Poet  to  embody  and  combine.  Yet 
the  experience  and  the  feelings  to  which  I  refer,  do  not  in 
themselves  constitute  men  Poets,  but  only  prepare  them 
to  be  the  auditors  of  those  who  are.  How  far  I  shall  be 
found  to  possess  that  more  essential  attribute  of  Poetry, 
the  power  of  awakening  in  others  sensations  like  those 
which  animate  my  own  bosom,  is  that  which,  to  speak 
sincerely,  I  know  not;  and  which,  with  an  acquiescent 
and  contented  spirit,  I  expect  to  be  taught  by  the  effect 
which  I  shall  produce  upon  those  whom  I  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  imitation  of  any 
contemporary  style.  But  there  must  be  a  resemblance, 
which  does  not  depend  upon  their  own  will,  between  all 
the  writers  of  any  particular  age.     They  cannot  escape 

*  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  perfectibility  in 
works  of  fiction,  notwithstanding  the  concession  often  made  by 
the  advocates  of  human  improvement,  that  perfectibility  is  a 
term  applicable  only  to  science. 


1  t()  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

from  subjection  to  a  common  influence  which  arises  out 
of  an  infinite  combination  of  circumstances  belonging  to 
the  times  in  which  they  live,  though  each  is  in  a  degree 
the  author  of  the  very  influence  by  which  his  being  is 
thus  pervaded.  Thus,  the  tragic  Poets  of  the  age  of 
Pericles;  the  Italian  revivers  of  ancient  learning;  those 
mighty  intellects  of  our  own  country  that  succeeded  the 
Reformation,  the  translators  of  the  Bible,  Shakspeare, 
Spenser,  the  Dramatists  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and 
Lord  Bacon ;  *  the  colder  spirits  of  the  interval  that  suc- 
ceeded;— all  resemble  each  other,  and  differ  from  every 
other  in  their  several  classes.  In  this  view  of  things, 
Ford  can  no  more  be  called  the  imitator  of  Shakspeare, 
than  Shakspeare  the  imitator  of  Ford.  There  were 
perhaps  few  other  points  of  resemblance  between  these 
two  men,  than  that  which  the  universal  and  inevitable 
influence  of  their  age  produced.  And  this  is  an  influence 
which  neither  the  meanest  scribbler,  nor  the  sublimest 
genius  of  any  era,  can  escape;  and  which  I  have  not 
attempted  to  escape. 

I  have  adopted  the  stanza  of  Spenser,  (a  measure  inex- 
pressibly beautiful,)  not  because  I  consider  it  a  finer 
model  of  poetical  harmony  than  the  blank  verse  of  Shak- 
speare and  Milton,  but  because  in  the  latter  there  is  no 
shelter  for  mediocrity :  you  must  either  succeed  or  fail. 
This  perhaps  an  aspiring  spirit  should  desire.  But  I  was 
enticed,  also,  by  the  brilliancy  and  magnificence  of  sound 
which  a  mind  that  has  been  nourished  upon  musical 
thoughts,  can  produce  by  a  just  and  harmonious  arrange- 
ment of  the  pauses  of  this  measure.  Yet  there  will  be 
found  some  instances  where  I  have  completely  failed  in 
this  attempt,  and  one,  which  I  here  request  the  reader  to 
consider  as  an  erratum,  where  there  is  left  most  inadver- 
tently an  alexandrine  in  the  middle  of  a  stanza. 

But  in  this,  as  in  every  other  respect,  I  have  written 
fearlessly.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  this  age,  that  its 
Writers,' too  thoughtless  of  immortality,  are  exquisitely 
sensible  to  temporary  praise  or  blame.  They  write  with 
the  fear  of  Reviews  before  their  eyes.  This  system  of 
criticism  sprang  up  in  that  torpid  inteiwal  when  Poetry 
was  not.  Poetry,  and  the  art  which  professes  to  regulate 
and  limit  its  powers,  cannot  subsist  together.  Longinus 
could  not  have  been  the  contemporary  of  Homer,  nor 
Boileau  of  Horace.  Yet  this  species  of  criticism  never 
presumed  to  assert  an  understanding  of  its  own :  it  has 

*  Milton  stands  alone  in  the  age  which  he  illumined. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  141 

always,  unlike  true  science,  followed,  not  preceded,  the 
opinion  of  mankind,  and  would  even  now  bribe  with 
■worthless  adulation  some  of  our  greatest  Poets  to  impose 
gratuitous  fetters  on  their  own  imaginations,  and  become 
unconscious  accomplices  in  the  daily  murder  of  all  genius 
either  not  so  aspiring  or  not  so  fortunate  as  their  own.  I 
have  sought  therefore  to  write,  as  I  believe  that  Homer, 
Shakspeare,  and  Milton  wrote,  in  utter  disregard  of  anony- 
mous censure.  1  am  certain  that  calumny  and  misrepre- 
sentation, though  it  may  move  me  to  compassion,  cannot 
disturb  my  peace.  I  shall  understand  the  expressive 
silence  of  those  sagacious  enemies  who  dare  not  trust 
themselves  to  speak.  I  shall  endeavour  to  extract  from 
the  midst  of  insult,  and  contempt,  and  maledictions,  those 
admonitions  which  may  tend  to  correct  whatever  imper- 
fections such  censurers  may  discover  in  this  my  first 
serious  appeal  to  the  Public.  If  certain  Critics  were  as 
clear-sighted  as  they  are  malignant,  how  great  would  be 
the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  their  virulent  writings  • 
As  it  is,  I  fear  I  shall  be  malicious  enough  to  be  amused 
with  then  paltry  tricks  and  lame  invectives.  Should  the 
Public  judge  that  my  composition  is  worthless,  I  shall 
indeed  bow  before  the  tribunal  from  which  Milton  received 
his  crown  of  immortality,  and  shall  seek  to  gather,  if  I 
live,  strength  from  that  defeat,  which  may  nerve  me  to 
some  new  enterprise  of  thought  which  may  not  be  worth- 
less. I  cannot  conceive  that  Lucretius,  when  he  medi- 
tated that  poem  whose  doctrines  are  yet  the  basis  of  our 
metaphysical  knowledge,  and  whose  eloquence  has  been 
the  wonder  of  mankind,  wrote  in  awe  of  such  censure  as 
the  hired  sophists  of  the  impure  and  superstitious  noble- 
men of  Rome  might  affix  to  what  he  should  produce.  It 
was  at  the  period  when  Greece  was  led  captive,  and  Asia 
made  tributary  to  the  Republic,  fast  verging  itself  to 
slavery  and  ruin,  that  a  multitude  of  Syrian  captives, 
bigoted  to  the  worship  of  their  obscene  Ashtaroth,  and 
the  unworthy  successors  of  Socrates  and  Zeno,  found 
there  a  precarious  subsistence  by  administering,  under 
the  name  of  freedmen,  to  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the 
great.  These  wretched  men  were  skilled  to  plead,  with 
a  superficial  but  plausible  set  of  sophisms,  in  favour  of 
that  contempt  for  virtue  which  is  the  portion  of  slaves, 
and  that  faith  in  portents,  the  most  fatal  substitute  for 
benevolence  in  the  imaginations  of  men.  which,  arising 
from  the  enslaved  communities  of  the  East,  then  first 
began  to  overwhelm  the  western  nations  in  its  stream. 
Were  these  the  kind  of  men  whose  disapprobation  the 


U-;  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

wise  and  lofty-minded  Lucretius  should  have  regarded 
with  a  salutary  awe  ?  The  latest  and  perhaps  the  mean- 
est of  those  who  follow  in  his  footsteps,  would  disdain  to 
hold  life  on  such  conditions. 

The  Poem  now  presented  to  the  Public  occupied  little 
more  than  six  months  in  the  composition.  That  period 
has  been  devoted  to  the  task  with  unremitting  ardour 
and  enthusiasm.  I  have  exercised  a  watchful  and  earnest 
criticism  on  my  work  as  it  grew  under  my  hands.  I 
would  willingly  have  sent  it  forth  to  the  world  with  that 
perfection  which  long  labour  and  revision  is  said  to 
bestow.  But  I  found  that  if  I  should  gain  something  in 
exactness  by  this  method,  I  might  lose  much  of  the  new- 
ness and  energy  of  imagery  and  language  as  it  flowed 
fresh  from  my  mind.  And  although  the  mere  composi- 
tion occupied  no  more  than  six  months,  the  thoughts 
thus  arranged  were  slowly  gathered  in  as  many  years. 

I  trust  tliat  the  reader  will  carefully  distinguish  between 
those  opinions  which  have  a  dramatic  propriety  in  refer- 
ence to  the  characters  which  they  are  designed  to  eluci- 
date, and  such  as  are  properly  my  own.  The  erroneous 
and  degrading  idea  which  men  have  conceived  of  a 
Supreme  Being,  for  instance,  is  spoken  against,  but  not 
the  Supreme  Being  itself.  The  belief  which  some  super- 
stitious persons  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  stage 
entertain  of  the  Deity,  as  injurious  to  the  character  of 
his  benevolence,  is  widely  different  from  my  own.  h\ 
recommending  also  a  great  and  important  change  in  the 
spirit  which  animates  the  social  institutions  of  mankind, 
I  have  avoided  all  flattery  to  those  violent  and  malignant 
passions  of  our  nature,  which  are  ever  on  the  watch  to 
mingle  with  and  to  alloy  the  most  beneficial  innovations. 
There  is  no  quarter  given  to  Bevenge,  or  Envy,  or  Preju- 
dice. Love  is  celebrated  everywhere  as  tbe  sole  law 
which  should  govern  the  moral  world. 


THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 


DEDICATION. 


There  is  no  danger  to  a  Man,  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is  :  there's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge :   neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Chapman. 


TO    MARY . 

I. 

So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home ; 
As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of  Faery, 
Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome  ; 
Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of  love  and 
light. 

ii. 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 
Is  ended — -and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet, 
Or  where  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-falls  leap  among  wild  islands  green, 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen: 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  lias  ever  been. 


144  THE    UK  VOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


III. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  Friend, 

when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth 

did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep :  a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why :  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that,  alas ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife    of  tyrants  and  of 

foes. 

IV. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around, 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny 

ground — 
So  without  shame,  I  spake  : — "  I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek 
and  bold. 

v. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind ; 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more 

and  more 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined. 


THE- REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  145 


VI. 

Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one  ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain  ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Oyer  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone  : — 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone, 
Which  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that  could 
not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived  by  thee. 

VII. 

Thou  Friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Fell,  like  bright  Spring  upon  some  herbless  plain, 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in  twain, 
And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among, 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in 

Vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long. 

VIII. 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journeyed  now :  no  more  companionless, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content 
When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent, 
And  cherished  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 
To  trample  :  this  was  ours,  and  we  unshaken  stood  ! 

IX. 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 

And  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends  return ; 

vol.  i.  10 


146  THE    REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 

Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the 

power 
Which  says  : — Let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scorn. 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are  born 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn  : 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 

x. 

Is  it,  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 
But  strike  the  prelude  of  a  loftier  strain  ? 
Or,  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lingers 
Soon  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound  again, 
Though  it   might   shake   the   Anarch    Custom's 

reign, 
And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway, 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's  ?     I  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away, 
And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending  for  their 
prey. 

XI. 

And  what  art  thou  ?  I  know,  but  dare  not  speak  : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  light  thine  ample  forehead  wears, 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered,  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

XII. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth, 
Of  glorious  parents  thou  aspiring  Child  : 
I  wonder  not — for  One  then  left  this  earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  undefiled 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  14  7 

Of  its  departing  glory ;  still  her  fame 

Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and 

wild 
Which  shake  these  latter  days ;  and  thou  canst 

claim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 

xin. 

One   voice    came   forth   from   many   a   mighty 

spirit. 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 
As  some  lone  man  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home : — unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 
And  Faith,  and  Custom,  and  low-thoughted  cares, 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling- 
place. 

XIV. 

Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  blind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  Friend  !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, — 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's 

sight, 
That  burn  from  vear  to  year  with  unextinguished 

light 


148  THE    REVOLT    OF    1ST. A.M. 


CANTO  T. 

I. 
When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France  had 

failed 
Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining  glory, 
From  visions  of  despair  I  rose,  and  scaled 
The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory, 
Whose  caverned  base  with  the  vexed  surge  was 

hoary  ; 
And  saw  the    golden    dawn  break   forth,    and 

waken 
Each  cloud,  and  every  wave : — but  transitory 
The    calm :    for    sudden,    the    firm    earth    was 

shaken, 
As  if  by  the  last  wreck  its  frame  were  overtaken. 

ii. 

So  as  I  stood,  one  blast  of  muttering  thunder 
Burst  in  far  peals  along  the  waveless  deep, 
When,  gathering  fast,  around,  above,  and  under, 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began  to  creep, 
Until  their  complicating  lines  did  steep 
The  orient  sun  in  shadow : — not  a  sound 
Was  heard  ;  one  horrible  repose  did  keep 
The  forests  and  the  floods,  and  all  around 
Darkness  more  dread  than  night  was  poured  upon 
the  ground. 

in. 
Hark  !  'tis  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that  sweeps 
Earth  and  the  ocean.    See!  the  lightnings  yawn, 
Deluging    Heaven    with   fire,   and    the    lashed 

deeps 
Glitter  and  boil  beneath  :  it  rages  on, 
One  mighty   stream,  whirlwind   and  waves  up- 
thrown, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  149 

Lightning,  and  hail,  and  darkness  eddying  by, 
There  is  a  pause — the  sea-birds,  that  were  gone 
Into  their  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth  to  spy 
What  calm  has  fall'n  on  earth,  what  light  is  in  the 

sky. 

IV. 

For,  where  the  irresistible  storm  had  cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  blue  sky  was  seen 
Fretted  with  many  a  fair  cloud  interwoven 
Most  delicately,  and  the  ocean  green, 
Beneath  that  opening  spot  of  blue  serene, 
Quivered    like     burning    emerald  :     calm    was 

spread 
On  all  below ;  but  far  on  high,  between 
Earth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds  fled, 
Countless  and  swift  as  leaves  on  autumn's  tempest 

shed. 

v. 
Forever  as  the  war  became  more  fierce 
Between  the  whirlwinds  and  the  rack  on  high, 
That  spot   grew   more   serene ;  blue   light   did 

pierce 
The  woof  of  those  white  clouds,  which  seemed  to 

lie 
Far,   deep,  and  motionless ;  while  through  the 

sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Past  on,  in  slow  and  moving  majesty  ; 
Its  upper  horn  arrayed  in  mists,  which  soon 
But  slowly  fled,  like  dew  beneath  the  beams  of 

noon. 

VI. 

I  could  not  choose  but  gaze;  a  fascination 
Dwelt  in  that  moon,  and  sky,  and  clouds,  which 

drew 
My  fancy  thither,  and  in  expectation 


150  THE    REVOLT    OV    ISLAM. 

Of  what  I  knew  not,  I  remained : — the  hue 
Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  heaven  so  blue, 
Suddenly  stained  with  shadow  did  appear; 
A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approaching  grew, 
Like  a  great  ship  in  the  sun's  sinking  sphere 
Beheld  afar  at  sea,  and  swift  it  came  anear — 

VII. 

Even  like  a  bark,  which  from  a  chasm  of  moun- 
tains, 
Dark,  vast,  and  overhanging,  on  a  river 
Which  there  collects  the  strength  of  all  its  foun- 
tains, 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed  its  frame  doth 

quiver, 
Sails,  oars,  and  stream,  tending  to  one  endeavour ; 
So,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  winged  Form 
On  all  the  winds  of  heaven  approaching  ever 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came  :  the  storm 
Pursued  it  with  fierce  blasts,  and  lightnings  swift 
and  warm. 

VIII. 

A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 
Suspending  thought   and   breath ;  a   monstrous 

sight ! 
For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed 
An  Eagle  and  a  Serpent  wreathed  in  fight : — 
And  now,  relaxing  its  impetuous  flight 
Before  the  aerial  rock  on  Avhjch  I  stood, 
The  Eagle,  hovering,  wheeled  to  left  and  right, 
And  huug  with  lingering  Avings  over  the  flood, 
And  startled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's  solitude. 

IX. 

A  shaft  of  light  upon  its  wings  descended, 
And  every  golden  feather  gleamed  therein — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The  Serpent's  mailed  and  many-coloured  skin 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  151 

Shone  through  the  plumes ;  its  eoils  were  twined 

within 
By  many  a  swollen  and  knotted  fold,  and  high 
And  far,  the  neck  receding  lithe  and  thin, 
Sustained  a  crested  head,  which  warily 
Shifted  and  glanced  before  the  Eagle's  steadfast 


x. 

Around,  around,  in  ceaseless  circles  wheeling 
With   clang  of  wings   and   scream,   the    Eagle 

sailed 
Incessantly — sometimes  on  high  concealing 
Its  lessening  orbs,  sometimes  as  if  it  failed, 
Drooped  through  the  air ;  and  still  it  shrieked 

and  wailed, 
And  casting  back  its  eager  head,  with  beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assailed 
The  wreathed  Serpent,  who  did  ever  seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound  to  wreak. 

XI. 

What  life,  what  power,  was  kindled  and  arose 

Within  the  sphere  of  that  appalling  fray  ! 

For,   from   the    encounter  of    those   wond'rous 

foes, 
A  vapour  like  the  sea's  suspended  spray 
Hung  gathered :  in  the  void  air,  far  away. 
Floated  the  shattered  plumes ;  bright  scales  did 

leap, 
Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made  their  way. 
Like  sparks  into  the  darkness ; — as  they  sweep, 
Blood   stains   the  snowy   foam  of  the   tumultuous 

deep. 

XII. 

Swift  chances  in  that  combat — many  a  check. 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild  turmoil ; 
Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  enemy's  neck 


]  52  1  BE    REVOLT    OK    ISLAM. 

Locked  in  still'  rings  his  adamantine  coil, 
Until  the  Eagle,  faint  with  pain  and  toil, 
Remitted  his  strong  flight,  and  near  the  sea 
Languidly  fluttered,  hopeless  so  to  foil 
His  adversary,  who  then  reared  on  high 
His  red  and  burning  crest,  radiant  with  victor)'. 


Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  bursting  surge, 
Where  they  had  sunk  together,  would  the  Snake 
Relax  his  suffocating  grasp,  and  scourge 
The  wind  with  his  wild  writhings ;  for  to  break 
That   chain    of    torment,    the  vast   bird   would 

shake 
The  strength  of  his  unconquerable  wings 
As  in  despair,  and  with  his  sinewy  neck 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock  those  linked  rings, 
Then    soar — as   swift   as    smoke    from   a   volcano 
springs. 

XIV. 

Wile   baffled   wile,   and    strength    encountered 

strength, 
Thus  long,  but  unprevailing  : — the  event 
Of  that  portentous  fight  appeared  at  length  : 
Until  the  lamp  of  day  was  almost  spent 
It  had  endured,  when  lifeless,  stark,  and  rent, 
Hung  high  that  mighty  Serpent,  and  at  last 
Fell  to  the  sea,  while  o'er  the  continent, 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream  the  Eagle  past, 
Heavily  borne  away  on  the  exhausted  blast. 

XV. 

And  with  it  fled  the  tempest,  so  that  ocean 
And  earth  and  sky  shone  through  the  atmos- 
phere— 
Only,  it  was  strange  to  see  the  red  commotion 
Of  waves  like  mountains  o'er  the  sinking  sphere 
Of  sunset  sweep,  and  their  fierce  roar  to  hear 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  153 

Amid  the  calm :  down  the  steep  path  I  wound 
To  the  sea-shore — the  evening  was  most  clear 
And  beautiful,  and  there  the  sea  I  found 
Calm  as   a    cradled    child    in    dreamless   slumber 
bound. 

XVI. 

There  was  a  Woman,  beautiful  as  morning, 
Sitting  beneath  the  rocks  upon  the  sand 
Of  the  waste  sea — fair  as  one  flower  adorning 
An  icy  wilderness — each  delicate  hand 
Lay  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  the  band 
Of  her  dark  hair  had  fallen,  and  so  she  sate 
Looking  upon  the  waves ;  on  the  bare  strand 
Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small  boat  did  wait, 
Fair  as  herself,  like  Love  by  Hope  left  desolate. 

XVII. 

It  seemed  that  this  fair  Shape  had  looked  upon 

That  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 

That  her  sweet  eyes  were  weary  of  the  sun, 

As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  woe ; 

For  in  the  tears  which  silently  to  flow 

Paused  not,  its  lustre  hung :  she  watching  aye 

The    foam-wreaths    which   the   faint  tide  wove 

below 
Upon  the  spangled  sands,  groaned  heavily, 
And  after  every  groan  looked  up  over  the  sea. 

XVIII. 

And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Serpent  make 
His  path  between  the  waves,  her  lips  grew  pale, 
Parted,  and  quivered  ;  the  tears  ceased  to  break 
From  her  immovable  eyes ;  no  voice  of  wail 
Escaped  her ;  but  she  rose,  and  on  the  gale 
Loosening  her  star-bright  robe  and  shadowy  hair, 
Poured  forth  her  voice ;  the  caverns  of  the  vale 
That  opened  to  the  ocean,  caught  it  there, 
And  filled  with  silver  sounds  the  overflowing  air. 


151  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


She  spake  in  language  whose  strange  melody- 
Might  not  belong  to  earth.     I  heard,  alone, 
What  made  its  music  more  melodious  be, 
The  pity  and  the  love  of  every  tone  ; 
But   to   the    Snake   those    accents   sweet   were 

known, 
His  native  tongue  and  hers :  nor  did  he  beat 
The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but  winding  on 
Through  the  green  shadows  of  the  waves  that 

meet 
Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her  snowy  feet. 


Then  on  the  sands  the  Woman  sate  again, 
And  Avept  and  clasped  her  hands,  and  all  between, 
Renewed  the  unintelligible  strain 
Of  her  melodious  voice  and  eloquent  mien  ; 
And  she  unveiled  her  bosom,  and  the  green 
And  glancing  shadows  of  the  sea  did  play 
O'er  its  marmoreal  depth  : — one  moment  seen, 
For  ere  the  next,  the  Serpent  did  obey 
Her  voice,  and,  coiled  in  rest,  in  her  embrace  it 
lay. 

XXI. 

Then  she  arose,  and  smiled  on  me  with  eyes 
Serene  yet  sorrowing,  like  that  planet  fair, 
While  yet  the  daylight  lingereth  in  the  skies 
Which  cleaves  with  arrowy  beams  the  dark-red 

air, 
And  said :  To  grieve  is  wise,  but  the  despair 
Was  weak  and  vain  which  led  thee  here  from 

sleep  : 
This  shalt  thou  know,  and  more,  if  thou  dost  dare 
With  me  and  with  this  Serpent,  o'er  the  deep, 
A  voyage  divine  and  strange,  companionship  to 

keep. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  ldo 


XXII. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  wildest,  saddest  tone, 
Yet  sweet  of  some  loved  voice  heard  long  ago. 
I  wept.      Shall  this  fair  woman  all  alone 
Over  the  sea  with  that  fierce  Serpent  go  ? 
His  head  is  on  her  heart,  and  who  can  know 
How  soon  he  may  devour  his  feeble  prey  ? 
Such  were  my  thoughts,  when  the  tide  'gan  to 

flow  ; 
And  that  strange  boat,  like  the  moon's  shade  did 

sway 
Amid  reflected  stars  that  in  the  waters  lay. 

XXIII. 

A  boat  of  rare  device,  which  had  no  sail 
But  its  own  curved  prow  of  thin  moonstone. 
AVrought  like  a  web  of  texture  fine  and  frail, 
To   catch   those  gentlest  winds  which  are   not 

known 
To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed  alone 
With  which  it  cleaves  the  sparkling  sea  ;  and  now 
We    are   embarked,   the    mountains   hang   and 

frown 
Over  the  starry  deep  that  gleams  below 
A  vast  and  dim  expanse,  as  o'er  the  waves  we  go. 

XXIV. 

And  as  we  sailed,  a  strange  and  awful  tale 
That  Woman  told,  like  such  mysterious  dream 
As  makes  the  slumberer's  cheek  with  wonder 

pale  ! 
'Twas  midnight,  and  around,  a  shoreless  stream, 
Wide  ocean  rolled,  when  that  majestic  theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance,  and  she 

bent 
Her  looks  on  mine :  those  eyes  a  kindling  beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent, 
And,  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the  air  eloquent. 


150  THE   REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear !    much  shalt  thou 

learn, 
Much  must  remain  unthought.  and  more  untold, 
In  the  dark  Future's  ever-flowing  urn  : 
Know  then,  that  from  the  depth  of  ages  old 
Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  dominion  hold, 
Ruling-  the  world  with  a  divided  lot, 
Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold, 
Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods — when  life  and  thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst  the  womb  of  inessential 

Naught. 

XXVI. 

The  earliest  dweller  of  the  world  alone 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos :    Lo  !  afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors  shone, 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tempestuous  jar  : 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat — as  he  stood 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged  mutual  war, 
In  dreadful  sympathy — when  to  the  ilood 
That  fair  star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed  his  brother's 
blood. 

XXVII. 

Thus  evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spirit  of  evil, 
One  Power  of  many  shapes  which  none  may 

know, 
One  Shape  of  many  names ;  the  Fiend  did  revel 
In  victory,  reigning  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
For  the  new  race  of  man  went  to  and  fro, 
Famished  and  homeless,  loathed  and  loathing, 

wild, 
And  hating  good — for  his  immortal  foe, 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous  and 

mild, 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  unreconciled. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  15 


The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn  of  things, 
"Was  Evil's  breath  and  life  :  this  made  him  strong 
To  soar  aloft  with  overshadowing  wings ; 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
CTtrsed,  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  past ;  for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their  names  were 

hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many  a  groan, 
As  King,  and    Lord,  and   God,  the     conquering 

Fiend  did  own. 


The  Fiend,  whose  name  was  Legion  ;  Death, 
Decay, 

Earthquake,  and  Blight,  and  Want,  and  Mad- 
ness pale, 

Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  array 

Numerous  as  leaves  that  strew  the  autumnal 
gale  ; 

Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  beneath  the  veil 

Of  food  and  mirth,  hiding  his  mortal  head  ; 

And,  without  whom  all  these  might  naught  avail, 

Fear.  Hatred,  Faith,  and  Tyranny,  who  spread 
Those  subtle  nets  which  snare  the  living  and  the 
dead. 

XXX. 

His  spirit  is  their  power,  and  they  his  slaves 

In  air,  and   light,    and   thought,  and   language 

dwell ; 
And  keep  their  state  from  palaces  to  graves, 
In  all  resorts  of  men — invisible. 
But  when,  in  ebon  mirror,  Nightmare  fell, 
To  tyrant  or  imposture  bids  them  rise. 
Black    winged  demon  forms — whom,  from   the 

hell, 


|58  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether  skies, 

He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting  ministries. 


XXXI. 

In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was  as  firm 
As  its  foundations — soon  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Though  in  the  likeness  of  a  loathsome  worm. 

Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  formless  Hood, 
Which  shrank  and  fled ;  and  with  that  fiend  of 
blood 
Renewed  the   doubtful  war — thrones   then  first 

shook, 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled  multitude, 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  began  to  look, 
And  Fear,  the   demon  pale,  his  sanguine  shrine 
forsook. 


Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards  and  sages, 
In  dream,  the  golden-pinioned  Genii  came, 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night  of  ages 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest  flame 
Which   thy   breath   kindled,   Power   of  holiest 

name  ! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness  gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  their  sunlike  fame 
Upon  the  combat  shone — a  light  to  save, 
Like  Paradise  spread  forth  beyond   the  shadowy 

grave. 

XXXIII. 

Such  is  this  conflict — when  mankind  doth  strive 
With  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood, 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings,  are  alive  ; 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice  and  truth,  with  custom's  hydra  brood, 
Wage  silent  war ; — when    priests  and   kings   dis- 
semble 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  159 

Ta  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disquietude, 
When  round   pure  hearts,  a  host  of  hopes  as- 
semble, 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet — the  world's  founda- 
tions tremble ! 

xxxiv. 

Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight — when  to  thy  home 
Thou  dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth  in  tears  ; 
Though   thou    may'st   hear   that    earth   is   now 

become 
The  tyrant's  garbage,  which  to  his  compeers, 
The  vile  reward  of  their  dishonoured  years, 
He  will  dividing  give. — The  victor  Fiend 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  fears 
His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  will 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  his  approaching  end. 


List,  stranger,  list !  mine  is  a  human  form. 
Like  that  thou  wearest — touch  me — shrink  not 

now ! 
My  hand  thou  feel'st  is  not  a  ghost's,  but  warm 
With  human  blood. — 'Twas  many  years  ago. 
Since  first  my  thirsting  soul  aspired  to  know 
The  secrets  of  this  wondrous  world,  when  deep 
My  heart  was  pierced  with  sympathy,  for  woe 
Which  could   not  be   mine  own — and   thought 

did  keep 
In  dream,  unnatural  watch  beside  an  infant's  sleep. 

XXXVI. 

Woe  could  not  be  mine  own,  since  far  from  men 
I  dwelt,  a  free  and  happy  orphan  child. 
By  the  sea-shore,  in  a  deep  mountain  glen  ; 
And   near  the   waves,   and  through  the  forests 

wild, 
I  roamed,  to  storm  and  darkness  reconciled, 
For  I  was  calm  while  tempest  shook  the  sky  : 


160  THE    REVOLT    0§    [SLAM. 

But,    when    the   breathless   heavens    in    beauty 

smiled, 
I  wept  sweet  tears,  yet  too  tumultuously 
For  peace,  and  clasped  my  hands  aloft  in  ecstasy. 

XXXVII. 

These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate. — Before 
A  woman's  heart  beat  in  my  virgin  breast, 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore  : 
A  dying  poet  gave  me  books,  and  blest 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the  sweet  unrest 
In  which  I  watched  him  as  he  died  away — 
A  youth  with  hoary  hair — a  fleeting  guest 
Of  our  lone  mountains — and  this  lore  did  sway 
My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there  aiway. 


Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth  unfold, 
I  knew,  but  not,  methinks,  as  others  know, 
For  they  weep  not ;  and  Wisdom  had  unrolled 
The  clouds  which  hide  the  gulf  of  mortal  woe  : 
To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision  show, 
For  I  loved  all  things  with  intense  devotion  ; 
So   that   when   Hope's   deep   source    in    fullest 

flow, 
Like  earthquake  did  uplift  the  stagnant  ocean 
Of  human  thoughts — mine  shook  beneath  the  wide 

emotion. 

xxxix. 

When  first   the   living  blood   through  all  these 

veins 
Kindled  a  thought  in  sense,  great  France  sprang 

forth 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponderous  chains 
Which  bind  in  woe  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  saAv,  and  started  from  my  cottage  hearth  ; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tameless  gladness 
Shrieked,  till  they  caught  immeasurable  mirth — 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  161 

And  laughed  in  light  and  music  :   soon  sweet 
madness 
Was  poured  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and  thrilling 
sadness. 

XL. 

Deep  slumber  fell  on  me  ; — my  dreams  were  fire, 
Soft  and  delightful  thoughts  did  rest  and  hover 
Like  shadows  o'er  my  brain  ;  and  strange  desire, 
The  tempest  of  a  passion,  raging  over 
My  tranquil  soul,  its  depths  with  light  did  cover, 
Which  past ;  and  calm,  and  darkness,  sweeter  far 
Came — then  I  loved ;  but  not  a  human  lover  ! 
For  when  I  rose  from  sleep,  the  Morning  Star 
Shone  through  the  woodbine  wreaths  which  round 
my  casement  were. 


'Twas  like  an  eye  which  seemed  to  smile  on  me. 

I  watched  till,  by  the  sun  made  pale,  it  sank 

Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea  ; 

But  from  its  beams  deep  love  my  spirit  drank, 

And  to  my  brain  the  boundless  world  now 
shrank 

Into  one  thought — one  image — yea,  forever ! 

Even  like  the  dayVspring,  poured  on  vapours 
dank, 

The  beams  of  that  one  star  did  shoot  and  quiver 
Through  my  benighted  mind — and  were  extin- 
guished never. 

XLII. 

The  day  past  thus  :  at  night,  methought  in  dream 
A  shape  of  speechless  beauty  did  appear ; 
It  stood  like  light  on  a  careering  stream 
Of  golden  clouds  which  shook  the  atmosphere  ; 
A  winged  youth,  his  radiant  brow  did  wear 
The  Morning  Star :  a  wild  dissolving  bliss 
Over  my  frame  he  breathed,  approaching  near, 
vol.  i.  11 


1G2  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tenderness 
Near  mine,  and  on  my  lips  impressed  a  lingering 
kiss, 

XLIII. 

And  said:  A  Spirit  loves  thee,  mortal  maiden, 
How  wilt  thou  prove  thy  worth  ?     Then  joy  ami 

sleep 
Together  fled ;  my  soul  was  deeply  laden, 
And  to  the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and  weep ; 
But  as  I  moved  over  my  heart  did  creep 
A  joy  less  soft,  but  more  profound  and  strong 
Than  my  sweet  dream ;  and  it  forbade  to  keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore :  that  Spirit's  tongue 
Seemed  whispering  in  my  heart,  and  bore  my  steps 
along. 

XLIV. 

How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city  led, 
Which  was  a  field  of  holy  warfare  then, 
I  walked  among  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
And  shared  in  fearless  deeds  with  evil  men, 
Calm  as  an  angel  in  the  dragon's  den — 
How  I  braved  death  for  liberty  and  truth, 
And  spurned  at  peace,  and  power,  and  fame 

and  when 
Those  hopes  had  lost  the  glory  of  their  youth, 
How  sadly  I  returned — might  move  the  hearer's 

ruth : 


Warm  tears  throng  fast!  the  tale  may  not  be 

said — 
Know  then,  that  when  this  grief  had  been  sub- 
dued, 
I  was  not  left,  like  others,  cold  and  dead ; 
The  Spirit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 
Sustained  his  child :  the  tempest-shaken  wood, 
The  waves,  the  fountains,  and  the  hush  of  night — 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  1G3 

These  were  his  voice,  and  well  I  understood 
His  smile  divine  when  the  calm  sea  was  bright 
With  silent  stars,  and  Heaven  was  breathless  with 
delight. 

XL  VI. 

In  lonely  glens,  amid  the  roar  of  rivers, 

When  the   dim  nights   were   moonless,  have  I 

known 
Joys   which   no   tongue   can   tell ;  my  pale  lip 

quivers 
When  thought  revisits  them  : — know  thou  alone, 
That  after  many  wondrous  years  were  flown, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  shriek  of  woe ; 
And  over  me  a  mystic  robe  was  thrown, 
By  viewless  hands,  and  a  bright  star  did  glow 
Before  my  steps — the  Snake  then  met  his  mortal 

foe. 


Thou  fear'st   not    then    the    Serpent    on    thy 

heart? 
Fear  it !  she  said  with  brief  and  passionate  cry, 
And  spake  no  more  :    that   silence    made    me 

start — 
I  looked,  and  we  were  sailing  pleasantly. 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and  sky, 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  far  away ; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapphire,  piled  on  high 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence  lay 
On  the  still  waters, — these  we  did  approach  alway. 

XL  VIII. 

And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's  motion, 
So  that  a  dizzy  trance  fell  on  my  brain — 
Wild  music  woke  me :  we  had  past  the  ocean 
Which  girds  the  pole.  Nature's  remotest  reign — 
And  we  glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid  plain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noon-tide  day. 


164  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Ethereal  mountains  shone  around — a  Fane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles  which  lay- 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,  resplendent  far  away. 

XLIX. 

It  was  a  Temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy,  or  dream, 
Reared  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land : 
'Twas  likest  Heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple  streak 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the  gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering — when  with  many  a  golden  beam 
The  thronging  constellations  rush  in  crowds, 
Paving   with    fire    the    sky   and    the   marmoreal 
floods. 


Like  what  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast  dome, 
When  from  the  depths  which  thought  can  seldom 

pierce 
Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home, 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe, 
Yet,  nor  in  painting's  light,  or  mightier  verse, 
Or  sculpture's  marble  language,  can  invest 
That  shape  to  mortal  sense — such  glooms  im- 
merse 
That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon   the   labouring   brain    and    over-burthened 
breast. 

LI. 

Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 
Whose  bloomy  forests  starred  the  shadowy  deep. 
The  wingless  boat  paused  where  an  ivory  stair 
Its  fretwork  in  the  crystal  sea  did  steep, 
Encircling  that  vast  Fane's  aerial  heap : 
We  disembarked,  and  through  a  portal  wide 
We  passed — whose  roof  of  moonstone  carved, 
did  keep 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  lti-3 

A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  every  side, 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought ;  immovable,  deep- 
eyed. 

LII. 

We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  whose  glorious  roof 
Was  diamond,  which  had  drunk  the  lightning's 

sheen 
In   darkness,    and   now   poured  it  through  the 

woof 
Of  spell-inwoven  clouds  hung  there  to  screen 
Its  blinding  splendour — through  such   veil  was 

seen 
That  work  of  subtlest  power,  divine  and  rare ; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  between, 
And  horned    moons,  and  meteors  strange  and 
fair, 
On  night-black  columns  poised — one  hollow  hemi- 
sphere ! 


Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quivering  light 
Distinct — between  whose  shafts  wound  far  away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  aisles — more  bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  Heaven  of 

Day  : 
And  on  the  jasper  walls  around,  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought, 
Which  did  the  Spirit's  history  display  ; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely  taught, 
WThich,  in  their  winged  dance,  unconscious  Genii 

Avr.ought. 

LIV. 

Beneath,  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire  throne, 
The  great,  who  had  departed  from  mankind, 
A    mighty    Senate ;     some    whose    white    hair 

shone 
Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful,  and  blind. 


16G  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures  beamed  with 
mind ; 

And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright  and  fair; 

And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings  were  inter- 
twined 

With  pale  and  clinging  flames,  which  ever  there 
Waked  faint  yet  thrilling  sounds  that  pierced  the 
crystal  air. 

LV. 

One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne, 
Reared  on  a  pyramid  like  sculptured  flame, 
Distinct  with  circling  steps  which  rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire — soon  as  the  woman  came 
Into  that  hall,  she  shrieked  the  Spirit's  name 
And  fell;  and  vanished  slowly  from  the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving  frame, 
Which  gathering,  filled  that  dome  of  woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural  night. 


Then    first   two   glittering   lights  were   seen  to 

glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor, 
Small  serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side  to  side, 
Like  meteors  on  a  river's  grassy  shore, 
They  round  each  other  rolled,  dilating  more 
And  more — then  rose,  commingling  into  one, 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet  hanging  o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow,  which  was  thrown 
Athwart    the    glowing   steps    and   the    crystalline 

throne. 

LVII. 

The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of  flame 
Was  cloven ;  beneath  the  planet  sate  a  Form, 
Fairer  than  tongue  can  speak  or  thought  may 

frame, 
The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like  and  warm 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  167 

Flowed  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light  inform 
The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures,  and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled  shapes — with  clinging  charm 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine — He  sate 
Majestic  yet  most  mild — calm,  yet  compassionate. 

LVIII. 

Wonder  and  joy  a  passing  faintness  threw 
Over  my  brow — a  hand  supported  me, 
Whose  touch  was  magic  strength  :  an  eye  of  blue 
Looked  into  mine,  like  moonlight,  soothingly ; 
And  a  voice  said — Thou  must  a  listener  be 
This  day — two  mighty  spirits  now  return, 
Like  birds  of  calm,  from  the  world's  raging  sea, 
They  pour  fresh  light  from  Hope's  immortal  urn  ; 
A   tale  of  human   power — despair    not — 'list    and 
learn ! 

LIX. 

I  looked,  and  lo  !  one  stood  forth  eloquently, 
His  eyes  were  dark  and   deep,   and  the  clear 

brow 
Which  shadowed  them  was  like  the  morning  sky, 
The  cloudless  Heaven  of  Spring,  when  in  their 

flow 
Through  the  bright  air,  the  soft  winds  as  they 

blow 
Wake  the  green  world — his  gestures  did  obey 
The  oracular  mind  that  made  his  features  glow, 
And  where  his  curved  lips  half  open  lay, 
Passion's   divinest   stream   had   made   impetuous 

wav. 


Beneath  the  darkness  of  his  outspread  hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful :  but  there  was  One 
Who  sate  beside  him  like  his  shadow  there, 
And    held    his   hand — far    lovelier — she    was 
known 


168  THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM. 

To  be  thus  fair,  by  the  few  lines  alone 

Which  through  her  floating  locks  and  gathered 

cloke, 
Glances  of  soul-dissolving  glory,  shone  : — 
None  else  beheld  her  eyes — in  him  they  Avoke 
Memories   which    found   a   tongue,    as   thus    he 

silence  broke. 


CANTO  II. 


The  star-light  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks 
Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I  fed, 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks, 
And  the  green  light  which,  shifting  overhead, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  around  me  shed, 
The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and  the  wild  flowers, 
The    lamp-light    through    the    rafters    cheerly 

spread, 
And  on  the  twining  flax — in  life's  young  hours 
These    sights    and    sounds   did    nurse    my  spirit's 

folded  powers. 


In  Argolis  beside  the  echoing  sea, 
Such  impulses  within  my  mortal  frame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory, 
Like  tokens  of  the  dead : — but  others  came 
Soon,  in  another  shape  :  the  wondrous  fame 
Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and  deeds 
Of  minds   whom  neither   time  nor  change  can 

tame, 
Traditions  dark  and  old,  whence  evil  creeds 
Start    forth,  and   whose    dim   shade  a  stream  of 

poison  feeds. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  169 


III. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various  story 
Of  human  life,  and  wept  unwilling  tears. 
Feeble  historians  of  its  shame  and  glory, 
False  disputants  on  all  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Victims  who  worshipped  ruin, — chroniclers 
Of  daily  scorn,   and  slaves  who   loathed   their 

state  ; 
Yet  nattering  power  had  given  its  ministers 
A  throne  of  judgment  in  the  grave — 'twas  fate, 
That  among  such  as  these  my  youth  should  seek  its 

mate. 


The  land  in  which  I  lived,  by  a  fell  bane 
Was  withered  up.     Tyrants  dwelt  side  by  side, 
And  stabled  in  our  homes, — until  the  chain 
Stifled  the  captive's  cry,  and  to  abide 
That   blasting   curse    men    had   no  shame — all 

vied 
In  evil,  slave  and  despot ;  fear  with  lust 
Strange"  fellowship    through   mutual   hate    had 

tied, 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in  the  dust, 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  mingling  poison 

thrust. 

v. 

Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains  and  its 

waters, 
And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are  suspended 
Over  its  green  expanse,  and  those  fair  daugh- 
ters, 
The   clouds,  of    Sun    and    Ocean,    who   have 

blended 
The  colours  of  the  air  since  first  extended 
It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wandered  forth 
To  see  or  feel :  a  darkness  had  descended 


170  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

On  every  heart :  the  light  which  shows  its  worth, 
Must  among  gentle  thoughts  and  fearless  take  its 
birth. 

VI. 

This  vital  world,  this  home  of  happy  spirits, 
Was  as  a  dungeon  to  my  blasted  kind, 
All  that  despair  from  murdered  hope  inherits 
They  sought,  and  in  their  helpless  misery  blind, 
A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains  did  find, 
And  stronger  tyrants  : — a  dark  gulf  before, 
The  realm  of  a  stern  Ruler,  yawned ;  behind, 
Terror  and  Time  conflicting  drove,  and  bore 
On  their  tempestuous  flood  the  shrieking  wretch 
from  shore. 

VII. 

Out  of  that  Ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt  and  Woe 
Framed   a   dark    dwelling    for  their    homeless 

thought, 
And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to  and  fro 
Glide   o'er   its   dim   and   gloomy   strand,    had 

brought 
The    worship   thence    which   they   each  other 

taught. 
Well  might  men  loathe  their  life,  well  might  they 

turn 
Even  to  the  ills  again  from  which  they  sought 
Such  refuge  after  death  ! — well  might  they  learn 
To  gaze  on  this  fair  world  with  hopeless  unconcern  ! 

VIII. 

For  they  all  pined  in  bondage  ;  body  and  soul, 

Tyrant  and  slave,  victim  and  torturer,  bent 

Before  one  Power,  to  which  supreme  control 

Over  their  will  by  their  own  weakness  lent 

Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent ; 

All  symbols  of  things  evil,  all  divine  ; 

And  hymns  of  blood  or  mockery,  which  rent 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  171 

The  air  from  all  its  fanes,  did  intertwine 
Imposture's  impious  toils   round   each   discordant 
shrine. 

IX. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various  story, 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the  tale  ; 
But,  from  the   sneers  of  men  who   had  grown 

hoary 
In  shame  and  scorn,  from  groans  of  crowds  made 

pale 
By  famine,  from  a  mother's  desolate  wail 
O'er  her  polluted  child,  from  innocent  blood 
Poured   on   the   earth,  and  brows   anxious  and 

pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare ;  did  I  gather  food 
To  feed   my  many  thoughts : — a  tameless    multi- 
tude. 

x. 

I   wandered    through   the    wrecks  of  days   de- 
parted 
Far  by  the  desolated  shore,  when  even 
O'er  the  still  sea  and  jagged  islets  darted 
The  light  of  moonrise  ;  in  the  northern  Heaven, 
Among  the  clouds  near  the  horizon  driven, 
The  mountains  lay  beneath  one  planet  pale  ; 
Around  me  broken  tombs  and  columns  riven 
Looked  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sorrowing  gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlasting  wail ! 

XI. 

I  knew  not  who  had  framed  these  wonders  then, 
Nor  had  I  heard  the  story  of  their  deeds  ; 
But  dwellings  of  a  race  of  mightier  men, 
And  monuments  of  less  ungentle  creeds 
Tell  their  own  tale  to  him  who  wisely  heeds 
The  language  which  they  speak  ;  and  now,  to  me 
The  moonlight  making  pale  the  blooming  weeds, 


172  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breathless  sea, 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mystery. 

XII. 

Such  man  has  been,  and  such  may  yet  become ! 
Aye,  wiser,  greater,  gentler,  even  than  they 
Who  on  the  fragments  of  yon  shattered  dome 
Have   stamped   the   sign  of    power — I  felt  the 

sway 
Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  away 
My  floating  thoughts — my  heart  beat  loud  and 

fast — 
Even  as  a  storm  let  loose  beneath  the  ray 
Of  the  still  moon,  my  spirit  onward  past 
Beneath  truth's  steady  beams  upon  its  tumult  cast. 

XIII. 

It  shall  be  thus  no  more !  too  long,  too  long, 
Sons  of  the  glorious  dead  !  have  ye  lain  bound 
In  darkness  and  in  ruin. — Hope  is  strong, 
Justice    and    Truth    their    winged     child    have 

found — 
Awake  !  arise  !  until  the  mighty  sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The  thrones  of  the  oppressor,  and  the  ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  dust, 
Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betrayed  your  impious  trust. 

XIV. 

It  must  be  so — I  will  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,  and  like  a  sulphurous  hill, 
Which  on  a  sudden  from  its  snows  had  shaken 
The  swoon  of  ages^  it  shall  burst,  and  fdl 
The  world  with  cleansing  fire  :  it  must,  it  will — 
It  may  not  be  restrained  ! — and  who  shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  steadfast  still, 
But  Laon  ?  on  high  Freedom's  desert  land 
A  tower  whose  marble  walls  the    leagued  storms 
withstand ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  173 


XV. 

One  summer  night,  in  commune  with  the  hope 
Thus  deeply  fed,  amid  those  ruins  gray 
I  watched,  beneath  the  dark  sky's  starry  cope ; 
And  ever  from  that  hour  upon  me  lay 
The  burthen  of  this  hope,  and  night  or  day, 
In  vision  or  in  dream,  clove  to  my  breast : 
Among  mankind,  or  when  gone  far  away 
To  the  lone  shores  and  mountains,  'twas  a  guest, 
Which  followed  where  I  fled,  and  watched  when  I 
did  rest. 

XVI. 

These  hopes  found   words   through   which    my 

spirit  sought 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sympathy 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the  thought 
Which  ruled  me  now — and  as  the  vapours  lie 
Bright  in  the  outspread  morning's  radiancy, 
So  were  these  thoughts  invested  with  the  light 
Of  language  ;  and  all  bosoms  made  reply 
On    which    its    lustre     streamed,     whene'er   it 

might 
Thro'  darkness  wide  and  deep  those  tranced  spirits 

smite. 


Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was  dim, 
And   oft  I   thought   to   clasp   my    own   heart's 

brother, 
WTien  I  could  feel  the  listener's  senses  swim, 
And   hear   his   breath    its   own   swift    gaspings 

smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  them — and  another, 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem, 
Felt  that  we  all  were  sons  of  one  great  mother ; 
And  the  cold  truth  such  sad  reverse  did  seem, 
As  to  awake  in  grief  from  some  delightful  dream. 


174  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XVIII. 

Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruined  labyrinth 
Which  skirts  the  hoary  caves  of  the  green  deep, 
Did  Laon  and  his  friend  on  one  gray  plinth, 
Round  whose  worn   base   the  wild  waves   hiss 

and  leap, 
Resting  at  eve,  a  lofty  converse  keep  : 
And  that  his  friend  was  false,  may  now  be  said 
Calmly — that  he  like  other  men  could  weep 
Tears   which   are   lies,   and   could   betray   and 

spread 
Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for  his  own 

had  bled. 

XIX. 

Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed  my  sorrow, 
I  must  have  sought  dark  respite  from  its  stress 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no  morrow — 
For  to  tread  life's  dismaying  wilderness 
Without  one  smile  to  cheer,  one  voice  to  bless, 
Amid  the  snares  and  scoffs  of  human  kind, 
Is  hard — but  I  betrayed  it  not,  nor  less 
With  love  that  scorned  return,  sought  to  unbind 
The   interwoven   clouds   which   make  its   wisdom 
blind. 

xx. 

With  deathless  minds,  which  leave  where  they 

have  past 
A  path  of  light,  my  soul  communion  knew ; 
Till  from  that  glorious  intercourse,  at  last, 
As  from  a  mine  of  magic  store,  I  drew 
Words  which  were  weapons ; — round  my  heart 

there  grew 
The  adamantine  armour  of  their  power, 
And  from  my  fancy  wings  of  golden  hue 
Sprang    forth — yet    not    alone    from    wisdom's 

tower, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  175 

A  minister  of  truth,    these  plumes   young   Laon 
bore. 

XXI. 

An  orphan  with  my  parents  lived,  whose  eyes 
Were   load-stars   of    delight,    which    drew   me 

home 
When  I  might  wander  forth ;  nor  did  I  prize 
Aught   human   tiling  beneath  Heaven's  mighty 

dome 
Beyond   this  child  :   so   when   sad   hours   were 

come, 
And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to  me, 
Since  kin  were  cold,  and  friends  had  now  become 
Heartless  and  false,  I  turned  from  all,  to  be, 
Cythna.   the   only  source  of  tears   and   smiles  to 

thee. 


What  wert  thou  then  ?     A  child  most  infantine, 
Yet  wandering  far  beyond  that  innocent  age 
In  all  but  its  sweet  looks  and  mien  divine  ; 
Even  then,  methought,  with  the  world's  tyrant 

rage 
A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart  did  wage, 
When    those    soft    eyes   of    scarcely    conscious 

thought, 
Some  tale,  or  thine  own  fancies,  would  engage 
To  overflow  with  tears,  or  converse  fraught 
With  passion,   o'er  their  depths  its   fleeting  light 

had  wrought. 

XXIII. 

She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew 
Which  wanders  through   the  waste  air's   path- 
less blue, 


176  THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM. 

To  nourish  some  far  desert ;  she  did  seem 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew, 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 
Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  wave  of 
life's  dark  stream. 


As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me, 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair ; 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 
All  those  steep  paths  which  languor  and  despair 
Of  human  things  had  made  so  dark  and  bare, 
But  which  I  trod  alone — nor,  till  bereft 
Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely  care, 
Knew  I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was  left, 
Though  by  a  bitter  wound  my  trusting  heart  was 
cleft. 

XXV. 

Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I  had 
To  love  in  human  life — this  playmate  sweet, 
This  child  of  twelve  years  old — so  she  was  made 
My  sole  associate,  and  her  willing  feet 
Wandered  with  mine  where  earth  and  ocean 

meet, 
Beyond  the  aerial  mountains  whose  vast  cells 
The  unreposing  billows  ever  beat, 
Through  forests  wide  and  old,  and  lawny  dells, 
Where  boughs  of  incense  droop  over  the  emerald 

wells. 

XXVI. 

And  warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping  hand 
When  twined  in  mine :  she  followed  where  I 

went, 
Through  the  lone  paths  of  our  immortal  land. 
It  had  no  waste,  but  some  memorial  lent 
Which  strung  me  to  my  toil — some  monument 
Vital  with  mind :  then  Cythna  by  my  side, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  177 

Until  the  bright  and  beaming  day  were  spent, 
Would  rest,  with  looks  entreating  to  abide, 
Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be  denied. 

XXVII. 

And  soon  I  could  not  have  refused  her — thus 
Forever,  day  and  night,  we  two  were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us : 
And,  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling  air 
Of  noon  beside  the  sea  had  made  a  lair 
For  her  soothed  senses,  in  my  arms  she  slept, 
And  I  kept  watch  over  her  slumbers  there, 
While,  as  the  shifting  visions  over  her  swept, 
Amid  her  innocent  rest  by  turns  she  smiled  and 
wept. 

XXVIII. 

And,  in  the  murmur  of  her  dreams,  was  heard 
Sometimes  the  name  of  Laon  : — suddenly 
She  would  arise,  and,  like  the  secret  bird 
Whom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore  and  sky 
With  her  sweet  accents — a  wild  melody  ! 
Hymns  which  my  soul  had  woven  to  Freedom, 

strong 
The  source  of  passion,  whence  they  rose  to  be 
Triumphant  strains,  which,  like  a  spirit's  tongue, 
To  the  enchanted  waves  that  child  of  glory  sung. 

XXIX. 

Her   white   arms   lifted   through   the    shadowy 

stream 
Of  her  loose  hair — oh,  excellently  great 
Seemed  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the  vast  theme 
Of  those  impassioned  songs,  when  Cythna  sate 
Amid  the  calm  which  rapture  doth  create 
After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating, 
Her  spirit  o'er  the  ocean's  floating  state 
From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on  the  wing 
Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond  its  utmost  spring. 

VOL.    I.  12 


178  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXX. 

For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my  song 
Peopled  with  thoughts  the  boundless  universe, 
A  mighty  congregation,  which  were  strong 
Where'er  they  trod  the  darkness  to  disperse 
The  cloud  of  that  unutterable  curse 
Which  clings  upon  mankind: — all  things  became 
Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse, 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  the  planets,  life,  and  fame, 
And  fate,  or  whate'er  else  binds  the  world's  won- 
drous frame. 

XXXI. 

And  this  beloved  child  thus  felt  the  sway 

Of  my  conceptions,  gathering  like  a  cloud 

The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away  : 

Hers  too  were  all  my  thoughts,  ere  yet,  endowed 

With    music    and    with    light,    their    fountains 

flowed 
In  poesy ;  and  her  still  and  earnest  face, 
Pallid  with  feelings  which  intensely  glowed 
Within,  was   turned   on   mine    with   speechless 

grace, 
Watching  the  hopes  winch  there  her  heart  had 

learned  to  trace. 

XXXII. 

In  me,  communion  with  tins  purest  being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge,   which  in  hers  mine  own  mind 

seeing, 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries  : 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was  Cythna  ! — what  a  spirit  strong  and  mild, 
Which  death,  or  pain,  or  peril,  could  despise, 
Yet  melt  in  tenderness  !  what  genius  wild. 
5Tet  mighty,  was  inclosed  within  one  simple  child ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  179 


New  lore  "was  this — old  age  with  its  gray  hair, 

And  -wrinkled  legends  of  unworthy  things, 

And  icy  sneers,  is  naught :  it  cannot  dare 

To  burst  the  chains  which  life  forever  flings 

On  the  entangled  soul's  aspiring  wings, 

So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 

The   careless  slave  of  that  dark  power  which 

brings 
Evil,  like  blight  on  man,  who,  still  betrayed, 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living  hopes  are 

laid. 


Nor  are  the  strong  and  the  severe  to  keep 
The  empire  of  the  world  :  thus  Cythna  taught 
Even  in  the  visions  of  her  eloquent  sleep, 
Unconscious  of  the  power  through  which  she 

wrought 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought, 
As  from  the  tranquil  strength  which  cradled 

lay 
In  her  smile-peopled  rest,  my  spirit  sought 
Why  the  deceiver  and  the  slave  has  sway 
O'er  heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising  day. 

XXXV. 

Within  that  fairest  form,  the  female  mind 
Untainted  by  the  poison  clouds  which  rest 
On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did  find : 
But  else,  from  the  wide  earth's  maternal  breast, 
Victorious  Evil,  which  had  dispossest 
All  native  power,  had  those  fair  children  torn. 
And  made  them  slaves  to  soothe  his  vile  unrest, 
And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn, 
Till  they  had  learned  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of 
scorn. 


180  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXXVI. 

This  misery  was  but  coldly  felt,  till  she, 

Became  my  only  friend,  who  had  indued 

My  purpose  with  a  wider  sympathy ; 

Thus,  Cythna  mourned  with  me  the  servitude 

In  which  the  half  of  humankind  were  mewed, 

Victims  of  lust  and  hate,  the  slaves  of  slaves : 

She  mourned  that  grace  and  power  were  thrown 

as  food 
To  the  hyena  lust,  who,  among  graves, 
Over  his  loathed  meal,  laughing  in  agony,  raves. 

XXXVII. 

And  I,  still  gazing  on  that  glorious  child, 
Even  as  these  thoughts  flushed  o'er  her  : — "  Cyth- 
na sweet, 
Well  with  the  world  art  thou  unreconciled ; 
Never  will  peace  and  human  nature  meet, 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman  greet 
Domestic  peace  ;  and  ere  this  power  can  make 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy  seat, 
This  slavery  must  be  broken  " — as  I  spake, 
From  Cythna's  eyes  a  light  of  exultation  brake. 

XXXVIII. 

She  replied  earnestly : — "  It  shall  be  mine, 
This  task,  mine,  Laon  ! — thou  hast  much  to  gain  ; 
Nor  wilt  thou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride  repine, 
If  she  should  lead  a  happy  female  train 
To  meet  thee  over  the  rejoicing  plain, 
When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng  around 
The  Golden  City."— Then  the  child  did  strain 
My  arm  upon  her  tremulous  heart,  and  wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply  she  found. 


I  smiled,  and  spake  not. — "  Wherefore  dost  thou 
smile 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  181 

At  what  I  say  ?     Laon,  I  am  not  weak, 

And.  though  my  cheek  might  become  pale  the 

while, 
With  thee,  if  thou  desirest,  will  I  seek 
Through  their  array  of  banded  slaves  to  wreak 
Ruin  upon  the  tyrants.     I  had  thought 
It  was  more  hard  to  turn  my  unpractised  cheek 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved  spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  friend,  to  leave  and  murmur 

not. 


••  Whence   came   I  what   I  am  ?     Thou,  Laon, 

knowest 
How  a  young  child  should  thus  undaunted  be ; 
Methinks,  it  is  a  power  which  thou  bestowest, 
Through  which  I  seek,  by  most  resembling  thee, 
So  to  become  most  good,  and  great,  and  free ; 
Yet  far  beyond  this  Ocean's  utmost  roar 
In  towers  and  huts  are  many  like  to  me, 
Who.  could  they  see  thine  eyes,  or  feel  such  lore 
As  I  have  learnt  from  them,  like  me  would  fear  no 

more. 

XLI. 

"  Thinkest  thou  that  I  shall  speak  unskilfully. 
And  none  will  heed  me  ?     I  remember  now, 
How  once,  a  slave  in  tortures  doomed  to  die, 
Was  saved,  because  in  accents  sweet  and  low 
He  sang  a  song  his  Judge  loved  long  ago. 
As  he  was  led  to  death.— All  shall  relent 
Who  hear  me — tears  as  mine  have  flowed,  shall 

flow, 
Hearts  beat  as  mine  now  beats,  with  such  intent 
As  renovates  the  world ;  a  will  omnipotent ! 

XLIL 

"  Yes,  I  will  tread  Pride's  golden  palaces, 
Through  Penury's  roofless  huts  and  squalid  cells 


182  THE    REVOI/r    OF    ISLAM. 

Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectness 
Woman  with  some  vile  slave  her  tyrant  dwells, 
There  with  the  music  of  thine  own  sweet  spells 
Will  disenchant  the  captives,  and  will  pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal  wells 
Of  thy  deep  spirit,  reason's  mighty  lore, 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and  hope  arise  once 
more. 

XLIII. 

"  Can  man  be  free  if  woman  be  a  slave  ? 
Chain  one  who  lives,  and  breathes  this  boundless 

air 
To  the  corruption  of  a  closed  grave ! 
Can  they  whose  mates  are  beasts,  condemned  to 

bear 
Scorn,  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish,  dare 
To  trample  their  oppressors  ?     In  their  home 
Among  their  babes,  thou  knowest  a  curse  would 

wear 
The  shape  of  woman — hoary  crime  would  come 
Behind,  and  fraud  rebuild  religion's  tottering  dome. 


"  I  am  a  child  : — I  would  not  yet  depart. 
When  I  go  forth  alone,  bearing  the  lamp 
Aloft  which  thou  hast  kindled  in  my  heart, 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dungeon  damp 
Shall  leap  in  joy,  as  the  benumbing  cramp 
Of  ages  leaves  their  limbs — no  ill  may  harm 
Thy  Cythna  ever — truth  its  radiant  stamp 
Has  fixed,  as  an  invulnerable  charm 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  falsehood  to  disarm. 


"  Wait  yet  awhile  for  the  appointed  day — 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and  I  with  tears  shall  stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean  gray ; 
Amid  the  dwellers  of  this  lonely  land 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  183 

I  shall  remain  alone — and  thy  command 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  world's  unquiet  trance, 
And,  multitudinous  as  the  desert  sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  shall  advance, 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their  deliver- 
ance. 


"  Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  pathless  moun- 
tain, 
Which  from  remotest  glens  two  warring  winds 
Involve  in  fire,  which  not  the  loosened  fountain 
Of  broadest  floods  might  quench,  shall  all  the 

kinds 
Of  evil  catch  from  our  uniting  minds 
The  spark  which  must  consume  them ; — Cythna 

then 
Will  have  cast  off  the  impotence  that  binds 
Her  childhood  now,  and  through  the  paths  of 
men 
Will  pass,  as  the  charmed  bird  that  haunts  the  ser- 
pent's den. 


"  We  part ! — O  Laon,  I  must  dare,  nor  tremble, 
To  meet  those  looks  no  more ! — Oh,  heavy  stroke ! 
Sweet  brother  of  my  soul ;  can  I  dissemble 
The  agony  of  this  thought  ?  " — As  thus  she  spoke 
The  gathered  sobs  her  quivering  accents  broke, 
'And  in  my  arms  she  hid  her  beating  breast. 
I  remained  still  for  tears — sudden  she  woke 
As  one  awakes  from  sleep,  and  wildly  prest 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously  possest. 


"  We  part  to  meet  again — but  yon  blue  waste, 
Yon  desert  wide  and  deep,  holds  no  recess 
Within  whose  happy  silence,  thus  embraced, 
We  mijrht  survive  all  ills  in  one  caress : 


184  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Nor  doth  the  grave — I  fear  'tis  passionless — 
Nor  yon  cold  vacant  Heaven; — we  meet  again 
Within  the  minds  of  men,  whose  lips  shall  bless 
Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light  retain 
When  these  dissevered  bones  are  trodden  in  the 
plain." 

XLIX. 

I  could  not  speak,  though  she  had  ceased,  for 
now 

The  fountains  of  her  feeling,  swift  and  deep, 

Seemed  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their  flow  ; 

So  we  arose,  and  by  the  starlight  steep 

Went   homeward — neither   did   we   speak   nor 
weep, 

But  pale,  were  calm. — With  passion  thus  sub- 
dued, 

Like   evening   shades   that   o'er  the  mountains 
creep, 

We  moved  towards  our  home ;  where,  in  this 
mood, 
Each  from  the  other  sought  refuge  in  solitude. 


CANTO  III. 

i. 
What  thoughts  had  sway  o'er  Cythna's  lonely 

slumber 
That  night,  I  know  not ;  but  my  own  did  seem 
As  if  they  might  ten  thousand  years  outnumber 
Of  waking  life,  the  visions  of  a  dream, 
Which  hid  in  one  dim  gulf  the  troubled  stream 
Of  mind ;  a  boundless  chaos  wild  and  vast, 
Whose  limits  yet  were  never  memory's  theme  : 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds  past, 
Sometimes  for  rapture  sick,  sometimes   for   pain 

aghast. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  185 


II. 

Two  hours,  whose  might}'  circle  did  embrace 
More    time   than    might   make   gray  the  infant 

world, 
Rolled  thus,  a  weary  and  tumultuous  space : 
When  the  third  came,  like  mist  on  breezes  curled, 
From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was  unfurled : 
Methought,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  cave 
I  sate  with  Cythna ;  drooping  briony,  peaked 
With  dew  from  the'  wild  streamlet's  shattered 
wave, 
Hung,  where  we  sate,  to  taste  the  joys  which  Na- 
ture gave. 

in. 

We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to  live, 
But  nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on, 
And  the  bright  air  o'er  every  shape  did  weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless  stone, 
The  leafless  bough  among  the  leaves  alone, 
Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could  be, 
And  Cythna's  pure  and  radiant  self  was  shown 
In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me, 
That  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was  agony. 

IV. 

Morn  fled,  noon  came,  evening,  then  night  de- 
scended, 
And  we  prolonged  calm  talk  beneath  the  sphere 
Of  the  calm  moon — when,  suddenly  was  blended 
With  our  repose  a  nameless  sense  of  fear  ; 
And  from  the  cave  behind  I  seemed  to  hear 
Sounds  gathering  upwards  ! — accents  incomplete, 
And  stifled  shrieks, — and  now,  more  near  and 

near, 
A  tumult  and  a  rush  of  thronging  feet 
The  cavern's  secret  depths  beneath  the  earth  did 
beat. 


18G  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


V. 

The  scene  was  changed,  and  away,  away,  away ! 
Through  the  air  and  over  the  sea  we  sped, 
And  Cythna  in  my  sheltering  bosom  lay, 
And  the  winds  bore  me  ; — through  the  darkness 

spread 
Around,  the  gaping  earth  then  vomited 
Legions  of  foul  and  ghastly  shapes,  which  hung 
Up^|  my  flight ;  and  ever  as  we  fled, 
They  plucked  at  Cythna — soon  to  me  then  clung 
A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous  dreams 

among. 

VI. 

And  I  lay  struggling  in  the  impotence 
Of  sleep,  while  outward  life  had  burst  its  bound, 
Though,  still  deluded,  strove  the  tortured  sense 
To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the  sound 
Which  in  the  light  of  morn  was  poured  around 
Our  dwelling — breathless,  pale,  and  unaware 
I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage  crowded  found 
With  armed  men,  whose  glittering  swords  Ave  re 

bare, 
And  whose  degraded  limbs  the  tyrant's  garb  did 

wear. 


And  ere  with  rapid  lips  and  gathered  brow 
I  could  demand  the  cause — a  feeble  shriek — 
It  Avas  a  feeble  shriek,  faint,  far,  and  low, 
Arrested  me — my  mien  greAv  calm  and  meek, 
And,  grasping  a  small  knife,  I  went  to  seek 
That  voice   among  the   croAvd — 'tAvas   Cythna's 

cry  ! 
Beneath  most  calm  resolve  did  agony  wreak 
Its  Avhirlwind  rage : — so  I  past  quietly 
Till  I  beheld,  AA'here  bound,  that  dearest  child  did 

lie. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  187 


VIII. 

I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 
And  exultation,  and  a joyance  free, 
Solemn,  serene,  and  lofty,  filled  the  light 
Of  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  looked  on  me  : 
So  that  I  feared  some  brainless  ecstasy, 
Wrought  from  that  bitter  woe,  had  wildered  her — 
"  Farewell !  farewell ! "  she  said,  as  I  drew  nigh. 
"  At  first  my  peace  was  marred  by  this  strange 
•    stir, 
Now  I  am  calm  as  truth — its  chosen  minister. 

IX. 

"  Look  not  so,  Laon — say  farewell  in  hope  : 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves  who  bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task — it  was  my  scope 
The  slavery  where  they  drag  me  now,  to  share, 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  to  wear 
Awhile — the   rest  thou    knowest — return,   dear 

friend  ! 
Let  our  first  triumph  trample  the  despair 
Which  would  ensnare  us  now,  for  in  the  end, 
In  victory  or  in  death  our  hopes  and  fears  must 

blend." 

x. 

These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheeding  ear, 
Whilst  I  had  watched  the  motions  of  the  crew 
With  seeming  careless  glance ;  not  many  were 
Around  her,  for  their  comrades  just  withdrew 
To  guard  some  other  victim — so  I  drew 
My  knife,  and  with  one  impulse,  suddenly 
All  unaware  three  of  their  number  slew, 
And  grasped  a  fourth  by  the  throat,  and  with 
loud  cry 
My  countrymen  invoked  to  death  or  liberty ! 


188  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XL 

What  followed  then,  I  know  not — for  a  stroke 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head  came  down, 
Filling  my  eyes  with  blood — when  I  awoke, 
I  felt  that  they  had  bound  me  in  my  swoon, 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the  town, 
By  the  steep  path  Avere  bearing  me :  below 
The  plain  Avas  filled  Avith  slaughter, — overthroAvn 
The  vineyards  and  the  harvests,  and  the  glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  Avhite  Ocean's 

flOAV. 

XII. 

Upon  that  rock  a  mighty  column  stood, 
Whose  capital  seemed  sculptured  in  the  sky, 
Which  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  solitude 
Of  distant  seas,  from  ages  long  gone  by, 
Had  many  a  landmark ;  o'er  its  height  to  fly 
Scarcely  the  cloud,  the  vulture,  or  the  blast, 
Has  poAver — and  Avhen  the  shades  of  evening  lie 
On  Earth  and  Ocean,  its  carved  summits  cast 
The  sunken  daylight  far  through  the  aerial  Avaste. 

XIII. 

They  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 
Beneath  that  column,  and  unbound  me  there  : 
And  one  did  strip  me  stark ;  and  one  did  fill 
A  vessel  from  the  putrid  pool ;  one  bare 
A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friendless  care 
Guided  my  steps  the  cavern-paths  along, 
Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  narrow  stair 
We  wound,  until  the  torches'  fiery  tongue 
Amid  the  gushing  day  beamless  and  pallid  hung. 

XIV. 

They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of  the  pile, 
That  column's  dizzy  height : — the  grate  of  brass 
Through  Avhich  they  thrust  me,  open  stood  the 
while, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  189 

As  to  its  ponderous  and  suspended  mass. 
With  chains  which  eat  into  the  flesh,  alas  ! 
With  brazen  links,  my  naked  limbs  they  bound: 
The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  repass, 
With  horrid  clangour  fell,  and  the  far  sound 
Of  their  retiring  steps   in  the  dense  gloom  was 
drowned. 


The  noon  was  calm  and  bright : — around  that 

column 
The  overhanging  sky  and  circling  sea 
Spread  forth  in  silentness  profound  and  solemn 
The  darkness  of  brief  frenzy  cast  on  me, 
So  that  I  knew  not  my  own  misery  : 
The  islands  and  the  mountains  in  the  day 
Like  clouds  reposed  afar ;  and  I  could  see 
The  town  among  the  woods  below  that  lay, 
And  the  dark  rocks  which  bound  the  bright  and 

glassy  bay. 

XVI. 

It  was  so  calm,  that  scarce  the  feathery  weed 
Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost  stone 
Swayed  in  the  air : — so  bright,  that  noon  did 

breed 
No  shadow  in  the  sky  beside  mine  own — 
Mine,  and  the  shadow  of  my  chain  alone. 
Below  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in  flame 
Rested  like  night,  all  else  was  clearly  shown 
In  the  broad  glare,  yet  sound  to  me  none  came. 
But  of  the  living  blood  that  ran  within  my  frame. 

XVII. 

The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too  soon  ! 
A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main  ; 
Its  sails  were  flagging  in  the  breathless  noon — 
Its  shadow  lay  beyond — that  sight  again 
Waked,  with  its  presence,  in  my  tranced  brain 


100  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,  keen  and  cold  : 
I  knew  that  ship  bore  Cythna  o'er  the  plain 
Of  waters,  to  her  blighting  slavery  sold, 
And  watched  it  with  such  thoughts  as  must  remain 
untold. 


I  watched,  until  the  shades  of  evening  wrapt 
Earth  like  an  exhalation — then  the  bark 
Moved,  for  that  calm  was  by  the  sunset  snapt. 
It  moved  a  speck  upon  the  Ocean  dark : 
Soon  the  wan  stars  came  forth,  and  I  could  mark 
Its  path  no  more  !     I  sought  to  close  mine  eyes. 
But,  like  the  balls,  their  lids  were  stiif  and  stark  ; 
I  would  have  risen,  but,  ere  that  I  could  rise, 
My  parched  skin  was  split  with  piercing  agonies. 

XIX. 

I  gnawed  my  brazen  chain,  and  sought  to  sever 
Its  adamantine  links,  that  I  might  die : 
O  Liberty !  forgive  the  base  endeavour, 
Forgive  me,  if,  reserved  for  victory, 
The  Champion  of  thy  faith  e'er  sought  to  fly. — 
That  starry  night,  with  its  clear  silence,  sent 
Tameless  resolve  which  laughed  at  misery 
Into  my  soul — linked  remembrance  lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe  content. 


To  breathe,  to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  despair 
And  die,  I  questioned  not ;  nor,  though  the  Sun 
Its  shafts  of  agony  kindling  through  the  air 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though  in  evening  dun, 
Or  when  the  stars  their  visible  courses  run. 
Or  morning,  the  wide  universe  was  spread 
In  dreary  calmness  round  me,  did  I  shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the  dead 
From  one  faint  hope  whose  flower  a  dropping  poi- 
son shed. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  191 


XXI. 

Two   clays   thus   past — I   neither   raved   nor 

died — 
Thirst  raged  within  me,  like  a  scorpion's  nest 
Built  in  mine  entrails ;  I  had  spurned  aside 
The  water-vessel,  while  despair  possest 
My  thoughts,  and  now  no  drop  remained  !     The 

uprest 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger — but  the  crust 
Which  had  been  left,  was  to  my  craving  breast 
Fuel,  not  food.     I  chewed  the  bitter  dust, 
And  bit  my  bloodless  arm,  and  licked  the  brazen 

rust. 

XXII. 

My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourth  morn 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles — a  fearful  sleep, 
Which  through  the  caverns  dreary  and  forlorn 
Of  the  riven  soul,  sent  its  foul  dreams  to  sweep 
With  whirlwind  swiftness — a  fall  far  and  deep, — ■ 
A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senselessness — 
These    things   dwelt   in   me,    even    as    shadows 

keep 
Their  watch  in  some  dim  enamel's  loneliness, 
A  shoreless  sea,  a  sky  sunless  and  planetless ! 


The  forms  which  peopled  this  terrific  trance 
I  well  remember — like  a  quire  of  devils, 
Around  me  they  involved  a  giddy  dance ; 
Legions  seemed  gathering  from  the  misty  levels 
Of  ocean,  to  supply  those  ceaseless  revels, 
Foul,   ceaseless   shadows : — thought   could   not 

divide 
The  actual  world  from  these  entangling  evils, 
Which  so  bemocked  themselves,  that  I  descried 
All  shapes  like  mine  own  self,  hideously  multiplied. 


l'.)2  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXIV. 

The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false  and  true, 
Was  dead  within  me.     Yet  two  visions  burst 
That  darkness — one,  as  since  that  hour  I  knew, 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the  realms  accurst, 
Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt — but  of  the  first 
I  know  not  yet,  was  it  a  dream  or  no. 
But  both,  though  not  distincter,  were  immersed 
In  hues  which,  when  through  memory's  waste 

they  flow, 
Make  their  divided  streams  more  bright  and  rapid 

now. 

xxv. 

Methought  that  gate  was  lifted,  and  the  seven 
Who  brought  me  thither,  four  stiff  corpses  bare, 
And  from  the  frieze  to  the  four  winds  of  Heaven 
Hung  them  on  high  by  the  entangled  hair  : 
Swarthy  were  three — the  fourth  was  very  fair  : 
As  they  retired,  the  golden  moon  upsprung, 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air, 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,  I  stretched  and  clung 
Over  the  shapeleU  depth  in  which  those  corpses 
hung. 

XXVI. 

A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold  and  blue, 
The  dwelling  of  the  many-coloured  worm, 
Hung  there,  the  white  and  hollow  cheek  I  drew 
To  my  dry  lips — what  radiance  did  inform 
Those    horny  eyes  V    whose  Avas   that  withered 

form  ? 
Alas,  alas  !  it  seemed  that  Cythna's  ghost 
Laughed  in  those  looks,  and  that  the  flesh  was 

warm 
Within  my  teeth  ! — a  whirlwind  keen  as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickening  spirit  tost. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  193 


Then  seemed  it  that  a  tameless  hurricane 
Arose,  and  bore  me  in  its  dark  career 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars  that  wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space — it  languished 

there, 
And,  dying,  left  a  silence  lone  and  drear, 
More  horrible  than  famine  : — in  the  deep 
The  shape  of  an  old  man  did  then  appear, 
Stately  and  beautiful ;  that  dreadful  sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,  and  I  could  wake 

and  weep. 


And,  when  the  blinding  tears  had  fallen,  I  saw 
That  column,  and  those  corpses,  and  the  moon, 
And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger  gnaw 
My  vitals,  I  rejoiced,  as  if  the  boon 
Of  senseless  death  would  be  accorded  soon  ; — 
When  from  that  stony  gloom  a  voice  arose, 
Solemn  and  sweet  as  when  low  winds  attune 
The  midnight  pines  ;  the  grate  did  then  unclose. 
And  on   that   reverend   form   the   moonlight   did 
repose. 

XXIX. 

He   struck   my  chains,  and   gently  spake    and 

smiled : 
As  they  were  loosened  by  that  Hermit  old, 
Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half  beguiled, 
To  answer  those  kind  looks. — He  did  enfold 
His  giant  arms  around  me  to  uphold 
My  wretched  frame,  my  scorched  limbs  he  wound 
In  linen  moist  and  balmy,  and  as  cold 
As   dew  to   drooping   leaves : — the  chain,  with 

sound 
Like  earthquake,  through  the  chasm  of  that  steep 

stair  did  bound 
vol.  i.  13 


194  THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM. 


XXX. 

As,  lifting  me,  it  fell ! — What  next  I  heard, 
Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbour  bar, 
And  the  shrill  sea-wind,  whose  breath  idly  stirred 
My  hair  ; — I  looked  abroad,  and  saw  a  star 
Shining  beside  a  sail,  and  distant  far 
That  mountain  and  its  column,  the  known  mark 
Of  those  who  in  the  wide  deep  wandering  are, 
So  that  I  feared  some  Spirit,  fell  and  dark, 
In  trance  had  lain  me  thus  within  a  fiendish  bark. 


For  now,  indeed,  over  the  salt  sea  billow 
I  sailed :  yet  dared  not  look  upon  the  shape 
Of  him  who  ruled  the  helm,  although  the  pillow 
For  my  light  head  was  hollowed  in  his  lap, 
And  my  bare  limbs  his  mantle  did  enwrap, 
Fearing  it  was  a  fiend :  at  last,  he  bent 
O'er  me  his  aged  face  ;  as  if  to  snap 
Those  dreadful  thoughts   the   gentle   grandsire 
bent, 
And  to  my  inmost  soul  his  soothing  looks  he  sent. 


A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 
At  intervals  he  raised — now  looked  on  high, 
To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 
His  zone  in  the  dim  sea — now  cheeringly, 
Though  he  said  little,  did  he  speak  to  me. 
"  It  is  a  friend  beside  thee — take  good  cheer, 
Poor  victim,  thou  art  now  at  liberty ! " 
I  joyed  as  those  a  human  tone  to  hear, 
Who  in  cells  deep  and  lone  have  languished  many 
a  year. 


A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpses  oft 
Were  quenched  in  a  relapse  of  wildering  dreams, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  195 

Yet  still  methought  we  sailed,  until  aloft 
The  stars  of  night  grew  pallid,  and  the  beams 
Of  morn  descended  on  the  ocean-streams. 
And  still  that  aged  man,  so  grand  and  mild, 
Tended  me,  even  as  some  sick  mother  seems 
To  hang  in  hope  over  a  dying  child. 
Till  in  the  azure  East  darkness  again  was  piled. 

XXXIV. 

And  then   the   night-wind,   steaming   from   the 

shore, 
Sent  odours  dying  sweet  across  the  sea, 
And  the  swift  boat  the  little  waves  which  bore, 
Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though  slantingly ; 
Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh,  and  could 

see 
The  myrtle-blossoms  starring  the  dim  grove, 
As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat  did  flee 
On  sidelong  wing  into  a  silent  cove, 
Where    ebon   pines   a   shade  under  the  starlight 

wove. 


CANTO  IV. 


The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon  the  bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower  of  stone  ; 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap  whose  portal  dark 
With  blooming  ivy  trails  was  overgrown  ; 
Upon   whose   floor   the    spangling   sands   were 

strown, 
And  rarest  sea-shells,  which  the  eternal  flood, 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months,  had  thrown 
Within   the    walls   of  that   great   tower,   which 

stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art,  nursed  amid  Nature's 

brood. 


196  THE    RKVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


II. 

When  the  old  man  his  boat  had  anchored, 
He  wound  me  in  his  arms  with  tender  care, 
And  very  few  but  kindly  words  he  said, 
And  bore  me  through  the  tower  adown  a  stair, 
Whose  smooth  descent   some  ceaseless  step  to 

wear 
For  many  a  year  had  fallen. — We  came  at  last 
To  a  small  chamber,  which  with  mosses  rare 
Was  tapestried,  where  me  his  soft  hands  placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  grass  and  oak-leaves  interlaced. 

in. 

The  moon  was  darting  through  the  lattices 
Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams  of  day — 
So  warm,  that  to  admit  the  dewy  breeze, 
The  old  man  opened  them ;  the  moonlight  lay 
Upon  a  lake  whose  waters  wove  their  play 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  lonely  home  : 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  wavering  ray. 
The  antique  sculptured  roof,  and  many  a  tome 
Whose  lore  had  made  that  sage  all  that  he  had 
become. 


The  rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was  past, — 
And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 
And  snowy  mountains : — did  my  spirit  wake 
From  sleep,  as  many-coloured  as  the  snake 
That  girds  eternity  ?  in  life  and  truth, 
Might  not  my  heart  its  cravings  ever  slake  ? 
Was  Cythna  then  a  dream,  and  all  my  youth. 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  its  joy  and  ruth  ? 

v. 
Thus  madness  came  again, — a  milder  madness, 
Which  darkened  naught  but  time's  unquiet  flow 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  197 

With  supernatural  shades  of  clinging  sadness  ; 
That  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless  woe, 
By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and  fro, 
Like  a  strong  spirit  ministrant  of  good : 
When  1  was  healed,  he  led  me  forth  to  show 
The  wonders  of  his  sylvan  solitude, 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted  flood. 


He  knew  his  soothing  words  to  weave  with  skill 
From  all  my  madness  told  :  like  mine  own  heart, 
Of  Cythna  would  he  question  me,  until 
That  thrilling  name  had  ceased   to   make   me 

start. 
From  his  familiar  lips — it  was  not  art, 
Of  wisdom  and  of  justice  when  he  spoke — 
When  'mid  soft  looks  of  pity,  there  would  dart 
A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  lightning's  stroke 
When   it    doth   rive  the  knots  of  some  ancestral 

oak. 

VII. 

Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  darkness  rolled, 
My  thoughts  their  due  array  did  reassume 
Through  the  enchantments  of  that  Hermit  old ; 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  glorious  doom 
Of  those  who  sternly  struggle  to  relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewildered  lot, 
And,  sitting  by  the  waters,  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve,  to  that  friend's  heart  I  told  my  thought — 
That  heart  which  had  grown  old,  but  had   cor- 
rupted not. 

VIII. 

That  hoary  man  had  spent  his  livelong  age 
In  converse  with  the  dead,  who  leave  the  stamp 
Of  ever-burning  thoughts  on  many  a  page, 
When  they  are  gone  into  the  senseless  damp 
Of  graves ! — his  spirit  thus  became  a  lamp 


198  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Of  splendour,  like  to  those  on  which  it  fed. 
Through    peopled    haunts,   the    City   and    the 

Camp, 
Deep  thirst  for  knowledge  had  his  footsteps  led, 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind  he  read. 


But  custom  maketh  blind  and  obdurate 

The  loftiest  hearts : — he  had  beheld  the  woe 

In  which  mankind  was  bound,  but  deemed  that 

fate 
Which  made  them  abject  would  preserve  them  so ; 
And  in  such  faith,  some  steadfast  joy  to  know, 
He  sought  this  cell :  but,  when  fame  went  abroad 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  undergo 
Torture  for  liberty,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  lips  had  heard  and  under- 
stood, 


And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering  wide, 
His  spirit  leaped  within  his  aged  frame  ; 
In  lonely  peace  he  could  no  more  abide, 
But  to  the  land  on  which  the  victor's  flame 
Had  fed,  my  native  land,  the  Hermit  came  ; 
Each  heart  was  there  a  shield,  and  every  tongue 
Was  as  a  sword  of  truth — young  Laon's  name 
Rallied  their  secret  hopes,  though  tyrants  sung 
Hymns   of  triumphant  joy   our   scattered   tribes 
among. 

xr. 
He  came  to  the  lone  column  on  the  rock, 
And  with  his  sweet  and  mighty  eloquence 
The  hearts  of  those  who  watched  it  did  unlock, 
And  made  them  melt  in  tears  of  penitence. 
They  gave  him  entrance  free  to  bear  me  thence. 
"  Since  tins,"  the  old  man  said,  "  seven  years  are 
spent, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  199 

While  slowly  truth  on  thy  benighted  sense 
Has  crept;  the  hope  -which  wildered  it  has  lent, 
Meanwhile,  to  me  the  power  of  a  sublime  intent. 

XII. 

"  Yes,  from  the  records  of  my  youthful  state, 
And  from  the  lore  of  bards  and  sages  old, 
From  whatsoe'er  my  wakened  thoughts  create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings  bold, 
Have  I  collected  language  to  unfold 
Truth  to  my  countrymen  ;  from  shore  to  shore 
Doctrines  of  human  power  my  words  have  told ; 
They  have  been  heard,  and  men  aspire  to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gained  or  ever  lost  of  yore. 

XIII. 

"  In  secret  chambers  parents  read,  and  weep, 
My  writings  to  their  babes,  no  longer  blind ; 
And  young  men  gather  when  their  tyrants  sleej}, 
And  vows  of  faith  each  to  the  other  bind ; 
And  marriageable  maidens,  who  have  pined 
With  love,  till  life  seemed  melting  through  their 

look, 
A  warmer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope,  now  find  ; 
And  every  bosom  thus  is  wrapt  and  shook, 
Like  autumn's  myriad  leaves  in  one  swoln  moun- 
tain brook. 

XIV. 

••  The  tyrants  of  the  Golden  City  tremble 
At  voices  which  are  heard  about  the  streets ; 
The  ministers  of  fraud  can  scarce  dissemble 
The  lies  of  their  own  heart ;  but  when  one  meets 
Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  weets, 
Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth  is  known  ; 
Murderers  are  pale  upon  the  judgment-seats. 
And  gold  grows  vile  even  to  the  wrealthy  crone, 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses  shake  the 
Throne. 


200  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XV. 

"  Kind  thoughts,  and  mighty  hopes,  and  gentle 

deeds 
Abound,  for  fearless  love,  and  the  pure  law 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the  world  in  awe, 
Bloody,  and  false,  and  cold  : — as  whirlpools  draw 
All  wrecks  of  Ocean  to  their  chasm,  the  sway 
Of  thy  strong  genius,  Laon,  which  foresaw 
This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey, 
Which  round  thy  secret  strength  now  throng  in 

wide  array. 

XVI. 

"  For  I  have  been  thy  passive  instrument " — 

(As  thus  the  old  man  spake,  his  countenance 

Gleamed  on  me  like  a  spirit's) — "  thou  hast  lent 

To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 

Towards  this  unforeseen  deliverance 

From  our  ancestral  chains — ay,  thou  didst  rear 

That  lamp   of  hope  on  high,  which  time,  nor 

chance, 
Nor  change  may  not  extinguish,  and  my  share 
Of  good  was  o'er  the  world  its  gathered  beams  to 

bear. 

XVII. 

"  But  I,  alas  !  am  both  unknown  and  old, 

And  though  the  woof  of  wisdom  I  know  well 

To  dye  in  hues  of  language,  I  am  cold 

In  seeming,  and  the  hopes  which  inly  dwell 

My  manners  note  that  I  did  long  repel ; 

But  Laon's  name  to  the  tumultuous  throng 

Were   like   the   star   whose    beams   the    waves 

compel 
And  tempests,  and  his  soul-subduing  tongue 
Were   as   a  lance   to  quell   the  mailed  crest  of 

wrong. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  201 


XVIII. 

"  Perchance  blood  need   not  flow,  if  thou    at 

length 
AVouldst  rise  ;  perchance  the  very  slaves  would 

spare 
Their  brethren    and   themselves ;    great   is   the 

strength 
Of  words — for  lately  did  a  maiden  fair, 
Who  from  her  childhood  has  been  taught  to  bear 
The  tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and  make 
Her  sex  the  law  of  truth  and  freedom  hear  ; 
And  with  these  quiet  words — ;  for  thine  own  sake 
I  prithee  spare  me,' — did  with  ruth  so  take 

XIX. 

"  All  hearts,  that  even  the  torturer,  who  had 

bound 
Her  meek  calm  frame,  ere  it  was  yet  impaled, 
Loosened  her  weeping  then ;  nor  could  be  found 
One  human  hand  to  harm  her — unassailed 
Therefore   she    walks   through   the   great    City, 

veiled 
In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence, 
'Gainst  scorn,  and  death,  and  pain,  thus  trebly 

mailed, 
And  blending  in  the  smiles  of  that  defence, 
The  Serpent  and  the  Dove,Wisdom  and  Innocence. 

xx. 

"  The  wild-eyed  women  throng  around  her  path  : 
From  their  luxurious  dungeons,  from  the  dust 
Of  meaner  thralls,  from  the  oppressor's  wrath, 
Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust, 
They  congregate  : — in  her  they  put  their  trust ; 
The  tyrants  send  their  armed  slaves  to  quell 
Her  power ; — they,  even  like  a  thunder  gust 
Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath  the  spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to  their  chiefs 
rebel. 


202  THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


XXI. 

"  Thus  she  doth  equal  laws  and  justice  teach 
To  woman,  outraged  and  polluted  long; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  human  reach 
For  those  fair  hands  now  free,  while  armed  wrong 
Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it  be  strong ; 
Thousands  thus  dwell  beside  her,  virgins  bright, 
And  matrons  with  their  babes,  a  stately  throng ! 
Lovers  renew  the  vows  which  they  did  plight 
In  early  faith,  and  hearts  long  parted  now  unite. 

XXII. 

"  And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home  near  her, 
And  those  poor  victims  of  the  proud,  no  less, 
Fair  wrecks,  on  whom  the  smiling  world  with  stir, 
Thrusts  the  redemption  of  its  wickedness  : — 
In  squalid  huts,  and  in  its  palaces 
Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land  is  borne 
Her  voice,  whose  awful  sweetness  doth  repress 
All  evil,  and  her  foes  relenting  turn, 
And  cast  the  vote  of  love  in  hope's  abandoned  urn. 


"  So  in  the  populous  City,  a  young  maiden 
Has  baffled  Havoc  of  the  prey  which  he 
Marks  as  his  own,  whene'er  with  chains  o'erladen 
Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  down  tyranny, 
False  arbiter  between  the  bound  and  free ; 
And  o'er  the  land,  in  hamlets  and  in  towns 
The  multitudes  collect  tumultuously, 
And  throng  in  arms;  but  tyranny  disowns 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around  its  trem- 
bling thrones. 


"  Blood  soon,  although  unwillingly,  to  shed 
The  free  cannot  forbear — the  Queen  of  Slaves, 
The  hood-winked  Angel  of  the  blind  and  dead, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  203 

Custom,  with  iron  mace  points  to  the  graves 
Where  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many  yet  stand  in  her  array — '  she  paves 
Her  path  with  human  hearts,'  and  o'er  it  flings 
The  wildering  gloom  of  her  immeasurable  wings. 

xxv. 
"  There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's  wall, 
Bounded  by  misty  mountains,  wide  and  vast ; 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrilling  call 
Ten  thousand  standards  wide ;  they  load  the  blast 
"Which  bears  one  sound  of  many  voices  past, 
And  startles  on  his  throne  their  sceptred  foe : 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast, 
And  that  his  power  hath  past  away,  doth  know — 
Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his  overthrow  ? 

XXVI. 

"  The  tyrant's  guards  resistance  yet  maintain  : 
Fearless,  and  fierce,  and  hard  as  beasts  of  blood ; 
They  stand  a  speck  amid  the  peopled  plain  ; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made  their  food 
From  infancy — ill  has  become  their  good, 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  has  wove 
The  chains  which  eat  their  hearts — the  multitude 
Surrounding  them,  with  words  of  human  love, 
Seek  from  their  own  decay  their  stubborn  minds  to 


XXVII. 

"  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause, 
As  night  and  da}'  those  ruthless  bands  around 
The  watch  of  love  is  kept : — a  trance  which  awes 
The  thoughts  of  men  with  hope — as  when  the 

sound 
Of  whirlwind,  whose  fierce  blasts  the  waves  and 

clouds  confound, 
Dies  suddenlv.  the  mariner  in  fear 


204  TIIK    REVOLT    OF    tSLAM. 

PmLb  silence  sink  upon  his  heart — tlms  bound, 
The  conqueror's  pause,  and  oh  !    may  freemen 
ne'er 
Clasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread,  the  murderer! 

xxvnr. 

"  If  blood  be  shed,  'tis  but  a  change  and  choice 
Of  bonds, — from  slavery  to  cowardice 
A  wretched  fall ! — uplift  thy  charmed  voice, 
Pour  on  those  evil  men  the  love  that  lies 
Hovering  within  those  spirit-soothing  eyes — 
Arise,  my  friend,  farewell ! " — As  thus  he  spake, 
From  the  green  earth  lightly  I  did  arise, 
As  one  out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth  awake, 
And  looked  upon  the  depth  of  that  reposing  lake. 


I  saw  my  countenance  reflected  there ; — 
And  then  my  youth  fell  on  me  like  a  wind 
Descending  on  still  waters — my  thin  hair 
Was  prematurely  gray,  my  face  was  lined 
With  channels,  such  as  suffering  leaves  behind, 
Not  age ;  my  brow  was  pale,  but  in  my  cheek 
And  lips  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did  find 
Their   food   and   dwelling ;    though   mine   eyes 
might  speak 
A  subtle  mind  and  strons  within  a  frame  thus  weak. 


And  though  their  lustre  now  was  spent  and  faded, 
Yet  in  my  hollow  looks  and  withered  mien 
The  likeness  of  a  shape  for  which  was  braided 
The  brightest  woof  of  genius,  still  was  seen — 
One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from  the  world's 

scene, 
And  left  it  vacant — 'twas  her  lover's  face — 
It  might  resemble  her — it  once  had  been 
The  mirror  of  her  thoughts,  and  still  the  grace 
Which  her  mind's  shadow  cast,  left  there  a  linger- 
ing trace. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  §05 


XXXI. 

What  then  was  I  ?  She  slumbered  with  the  dead. 
Glory  and  joy  and  peace,  had  come  and  gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  perish,  when  the  beams  are  fled 
Which  steeped  its  skirts  in  gold  ?    or  dark,  and 

lone. 
Doth  it  not  through  the  paths  of  night  unknown, 
On  outspread  wings  of  its  own  wind  upborne 
Pour  rain  upon  the  earth  ?   the  stars  are  shown, 
When  the  cold  moon  sharpens  her  silver  horn 
Under  the  sea,  and  make  the  wide  night  not  forlorn. 

XXXII. 

Strengthened  in  heart,  yet  sad,  that  aged  man 
I  left,  with  interchange  of  looks  and  tears. 
And  lingering  speech,  and  to  the  Camp  began 
My  way.     O'er  many  a  mountain  chain  which 

rears 
Its  hundred  crests  aloft,  my  spirit  bears 
My  frame ;  o'er  many  a  dale  and  many  a  moor, 
And  gaily  now  me  seems  serene  earth  wears 
The  bloomy  spring's  star-bright  investiture, 
A  vision  which  aught  sad  from  sadness  might  allure. 

'XXXIII. 

My  powei's  revived  within  me,  and  I  went 
As  one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the  bending  grass. 
Through  many  a  vale  of  that  broad  continent. 
At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams  did  pass 
Before  my  pillow ; — my  own  Cythna  was 
Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them  ever ; 
When  I  arose  from  rest,  a  woful  mass 
That  gentlest  sleep  seemed  from  my  life  to  sever, 
As  if  the  light  of  youth  were  not  withdrawn  forever. 


Aye,  as  I  went,  that  maiden,  who  had  reared 
The  torch  of  Truth  afar,  of  whose  high  deeds 


206  THE    REVOLT    OK    ISLAM. 

The  Hermit  in  his  pilgrimage  had  heard, 
Haunted  my  thoughts. — Ah,  Hope  its  sickness 

feeds 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers  or  weeds ! 
Could    she.   be    Cythna? — Was   that   corpse    a 

shade 
Such   as    self-torturing    thought  from   madness 

breeds  ? 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture  ?  yet  it  made 
A  light  around  my  steps  which  would  not  ever  fade. 


CANTO  V. 

i. 
Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 
A  snowy  steep : — the  moon  was  hanging  low 
Over  the  Asian  mountains,  and  outspread 
The  plain,  the  City,  and  the  Camp,  below, 
Skirted  the  midnight  Ocean's  glimmering  flow, 
The  City's  moonlit  spires  and  myriad  lamps, 
Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow, 
And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scattered  camps, 
Like  springs  of  flame,  which  burst  where'er  swift 
Earthquake  stamps. 

ii. 

All  slept  but  those  in  watchful  arms  who  stood. 
And  those  who  sate  tending  the  beacon's  light, 
And  the  few  sounds  from  that  vast  multitude 
Made  silence  more  profound — Oh,  what  a  might 
Of  human  thought  was  cradled  in  that  night ! 
How  many  hearts  impenetrably  veiled 
Beat  underneath  its  shade,  what  secret  fight 
Evil  and  good,  in  woven  passions  mailed, 
1 throug" 
failed  ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  iO' 


And  now  the  Power  of  Good  held  victory, 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a  tent, 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went ; 
The  moon  had  left  Heaven  desert  now,  but,  lent 
From  eastern  morn,  the  first  faint  lustre  showed 
An  armed  youth — over  his  spear  he  bent 
His  downward  face. — "A  friend  ! "  I  cried  aloud, 
And  quickly  common  hopes  made  freemen  under- 
stood. 

IV. 

I  sate  beside  him  while  the  morning  beam 
Crept  slowly  over  Heaven,  and  talked  with  him 
Of  those  immortal  hopes,  a  glorious  theme  ! 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars  grew  dim  : 
And  all  the  while,  methought,  his  voice  did  swim, 
As  if  it  drowned  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  make  the  moist  eyes  over- 
brim: 
At  last,  when  daylight  'gan  to  fill  the  air, 
He  looked  on  me,  and  cried  in  wonder,  "  Thou  art 
here  ! " 

v. 

Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  it  was  the  youth 
In  whom  its  earliest  hopes  my  spirit  found  ; 
But   envious   tongues   had  stained   his   spotless 

truth, 
And  thoughtless  pride  his  love  in  silence  bound, 
And  shame  and  sorrow  mine  in  toils  had  wound, 
Whilst  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded. 
The  truth  now  came  upon  me,  on  the  ground 
Tears  of  repenting  joy,  which  fast  intruded, 
Fell  fast,  and  o'er  its  peace  our  mingling  spirits 

brooded. 


208  THE    REVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 


VI. 

Thus,  while  with  rapid  lips  and  earnest  eyes 
We  talked,  a  sound  of  sweeping  conflict  spread, 
As  from  the  earth  did  suddenly  arise; 
From  every  tent,  roused  by  that  clamour  dread, 
Our  banda  outsprung  and  seized  their  arms  ;  we 

sped 
Towards  the  sound:    our  tribes  were  gathering 

far, 
Those  sanguine  slaves  amid  ten  thousand  dead 
Stabbed  in  their  sleep,  trampled  in  treacherous 

war, 
The   gentle  hearts  whose   power  their  lives  had 

sought  to  spare. 


Like  rabid  snakes,  that  sting  some  gentle  child 
Who  brings  them  food,  when  winter  false  and  fair 
Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles,  so  wild 
They  rage  among  the  camp ; — they  overbear 
The  patriot  hosts — confusion,  then  despair 
Descends  like  night — when  "  Laon ! "  one  did  cry : 
Like  a  bright  ghost  from  Heaven  that  shout  did 

scare 
The  slaves,  and,  widening  through  the  vaulted 

sky, 

Seemed  sent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  in  sign  of 
victory. 


In  sudden  panic  those  false  murderers  fled, 
Like  insect  tribes  before  the  northern  gale : 
But,  swifter  still,  our  hosts  encompassed 
Their  shattered  ranks,  and  in  a  craggy  vale, 
Where  even  their  fierce  despair  might  naught 

avail. 
Hemmed  them  around  ! — and  then  revenge  and 

fear 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  209 

Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots  fail : 
One  pointed  on  his  foe  the  mortal  spear — 
I  rushed  before   its   point,  and  cried,  "  Forbear, 
forbear ! " 

IX. 

The  spear  transfixed  my  arm  that  was  uplifted 

In  swift  expostulation,  and  the  blood 

Gushed  round  its  point :   I  smiled,  and — "  Oh  ! 

thou  gifted 
With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be  withstood. 
Flow  thus  !  " — I  cried  in  joy,  "  thou  vital  flood, 
Until  my  heart  be  dry,  ere  thus  the  cause 
For  which  thou  wert  aught  worthy  be  subdued — 
Ah,    ye   are   pale,  —  ye   weep,  —  your   passions 

pause, — 
'Tis  well !  ye  feel  the  truth  of  love's  benignant  laws. 


"  Soldiers,  our  brethren  and  our  friends  are  slain. 
Ye  murdered  them,  I  think,  as  they  did  sleep ! 
Alas,  what  have  ye  done  ?     The  slightest  pain 
Which  ye  might  suffer,  there  were  eyes  to  weep ; 
But  ye  have  quenched  them — there  were  smiles 

to  steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost  in  woe ; 
And  those  whom  love  did  set  his  watch  to  keep 
Around  your  tents  truth's  freedom  to  bestow, 
Ye  stabbed  as  they  did  sleep — but  they  forgive  ye 


XI. 

"  O  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill, 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  forever  breed  ? 
We  all  are  brethren — even  the  slaves  who  kill 
For  hire,  are  men  ;  and  to  avenge  misdeed 
On  the  misdoer,  doth  but  Misery  feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart !  O  Earth,  O  Heaven ! 
And  thou,  dread  Mature,  which  to  every  deed 
vol.  i.  14 


210  THE   REVOLT   OK    islam. 

And  all  that  lives,  or  is  to  be,  hath  given, 
Even   as   to   thee   have   these  done   ill,  and   are 
forgiven. 

XII. 

"  Join  then  your  hands  and  hearts,  and  let  the 

past 
Be  as  a  grave  which  gives  not  up  its  dead 
To  evil  thoughts." — A  film  then  overci-t 
My  sense  with  dimness,  for  the  wound,  which  bled 
Freshly,  swift  shadows  o'er  mine  eyes  had  shed. 
When  I  awoke,  I  lay  'mid  friends  and  foes, 
And  earnest  countenances  on  me  shed 
The  light  of  questioning  looks,  whilst  one  did 

close 
My  wound  with  balmiest  herbs,  and  soothed  me  to 

repose ; 

XIII. 
And  one,  whose  spear  had  pierced  me,  leaned 

beside 
"With  quivering  lips  and  humid  eyes ; — and  all 
Seemed  like  some  brothers  on  a  journey  wide 
Gone  forth,  whom  now  strange  meeting  did  befall 
In  a  strange  land,  round  one  whom  they  might 

call 

Their  friend,  their  chief,  their  father,  for  assay 

Of  peril,  which  had  saved  them  from  the  thrall 

Of  death,  now  suffering.     Thus  the  vast  array 

Of  those  fraternal  bands  were  reconciled  that  day. 

XIV. 

Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation 
Towards  the  City,  then  the  multitude, 
And  I  among  them,  went  in  joy — a  nation 
Made  free  by  love ; — a  mighty  brotherhood 
Linked  by  a  jealous  interchange  of  good  ; 
A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 
^Than  kingly  slaves,  arrayed  in  gold  and  blood, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  211 

When  they  return  from  carnage,  and  are  sent 
In  triumph  bright  beneath  the  populous  battlement. 

xv. 

Afar,  the  City  walls  were  thronged  on  high, 
And  myriads  on  each  giddy  turret  clung, 
And  to  each  spire  far  lessening  in  the  sky. 
Bright  pennons  on  the  idle  winds  were  hung ; 
As  we  approached,  a  shout  of  joyance  sprung 
At  once  from  all  the  crowd,  as  if  the  vast 
And  peopled  Earth  its  boundless  skies  among 
The  sudden  clamour  of  delight  had  cast. 
When  from  before  its  face  some  general  wreck 
had  past. 

XVI. 

Our  armies  through  the  City's  hundred  gates 
Were  poured,  like  brooks  which  to  the  rocky  lair 
Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them  awaits, 
Throng  from  the  mountains  when  the  storms  are 

there : 
And,  as  we  passed  through  the  calm  sunny  air, 
A  thousand  flower-inwoven  crowns  were  shed, 
The  token  flowers  of  truth  and  freedom  fair, 
And  fairest  hands  bound  them  on  many  a  head, 
Those  angels  of  love's  heaven,  that  over  all  was 

spread. 

XVII. 
I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  rapturous  vision : 
Those  bloody  bands  so  lately  reconciled, 
Were,  ever  as  they  went,  by  the  contrition 
Of  anger  turned  to  love  from  ill  beguiled, 
And  every  one  on  them  more  gently  smiled, 
Because  they  had  done  evil : — the  sweet  awe 
Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own  hearts  grow 

mild, 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw 
Their  spirits  to  the  love  of  freedom's  equal  law. 


212  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  they,  and  all,  in  one  loud  symphony 
My  name  with  Liberty  commingling,  lifted, 
"  The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the  free  ! 
The  parent  of  this  joy  !  "  and  fair  eyes,  gifted 
With  feelings  caught  from  one  who  had  uplifted 
The  light  of  a  great  spirit,  round  me  shone  ; 
And  all  the  shapes  of  this  grand  scenery  shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  steadfast  sun, — 
Where  was  that  Maid  ?   I  asked,  but  it  was  known 
of  none. 


Laone  was  the  name  her  love  had  chosen, 
For  she  was  nameless,  and  her  birth  none  knew : 
Where  was  Laone  now  ? — The  words  were  frozen 
Within  my  lips  with  fear ;  but  to  subdue 
Such  dreadful  hope,  to  my  great  task  was  due, 
And  when  at  length  one  brought  reply,  that  she 
To-morrow  would  appear,  I  then  withdrew 
To  judge  what  need  for  that  great  throng  might 
be, 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the  twilight  sea. 

xx. 

Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to  care, 
Even  though  that  multitude  was  passing  great, 
Since  each  one  for  the  other  did  prepare 
All  kindly  succour — Therefore  to  the  gate 
Of  the  Imperial  House,  now  desolate, 
1  passed,  and  there  was  found  aghast,  alone, 
The  fallen  Tyrant !— Silently  he  sate 
Upon  the  footstool  of  his  golden  throne. 
Which,  starred  with  sunny  gems,  in  its  own  lustre 
shone. 


AAl. 

Alone,  but  for  one  child,  who  led  before  him 
A  graceful  dance  :  the  only  living  thing 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  213 

Of  all  the  crowd,  which  thither  to  adore  him 
Flocked  yesterday,  who  solace  sought  to  bring 
In  his  abandonment ! — She  knew  the  King 
Had  praised  her  dance  of  yore,  and  now  she 

wove 
Its  circles,  aye  weeping  and  murmuring 
'Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love, 
That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless  sadness 

move. 


She  fled  to  him,  and  wildly  clasped  his  feet 
When  human  steps  were  heard : — he  moved  nor 

spoke, 
Xor  changed  his  hue,  nor  raised  his  looks  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  strangers. — Our  loud  entrance  woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,  which  circling  broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses, — like  a  tomb 
Its  sculptured  walls  vacantly  to  the  stroke 
Of  footfalls  answered,  and  the  twilight's  gloom 
Lav  like  a  enamel's  mist  within  the  radiant  dome. 


The  little  child  stood  up  when  we  came  nigh ; 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  seemed  very  pale  and  wan, 
But  on  her  forehead  and  within  her  eye 
Lay  beauty,  which  makes  hearts  that  feed  thereon 
Sick  with  excess  of  sweetness ; — on  the  throne 
She  leaned.    The  King,  with  gathered  brow  and 

lips 
Wreathed  by  long  scorn,  did  inly  sneer  and  frown 
With  hue  like  that  when  some  great  painter  dips 
His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 

XXIV. 

She  stood  beside  him  like  a  rainbow  braided 
Within  some  storm,  when  scarce  its  sftadows  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the  swift  sun  have  faded. 
A  sweet  and  solemn  smile,  like  Cythna's,  cast 


214  THK    UK VOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

One  moment's  light,  which  made  my  heart  beat 

fast 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips — a  gleam  of  bliss, 
A  shade  of  vanished  days, — as  the  tears  past 
Which  wrapt  it,  even  as  with  a  father's  kiss 
I  pressed  those  softest  eyes  in  trembling  tender- 
ness. 


The  sceptred  wretch  then  from  that  solitude 
I  drew,  and  of  his  change  compassionate, 
With  words  of  sadness  soothed  his  rugged  mood. 
But  he,  while  pride  and  fear  held  deep  debate, 
With  sullen  guile  of  ill-dissembled  hate 
Glared  on  me  as  a  toothless  snake  might  glare  : 
Pity,  not  scorn,  I  felt,  though  desolate 
The  desolator  now,  and  unaware 
The  curses  which  he  mocked  had  caught  him  by 
the  hair. 


I  led  him  forth  from  that  which  now  might  seem 
A  gorgeous  grave :    through  portals  sculptured 

deep 
With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 
We  went,  and  left  the  shades  which  tend  on  sleep 
Over  its  unregarded  gold  to  keep 
Their  silent  watch. — The  child  trod  faintingly. 
And,  as  she  went,  the  tears  which  she  did  weep 
Glanced  in  the  starlight ;  wildered  seemed  she, 
And  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could  not  answer 

me. 

XXVII. 

At  last  the  tyrant  cried,  "  She  hungers,  slave  ! 
Stab  her.  or  give  her  bread  ! " — It  was  a  tone 
Such  as  sick  fancies  in  a  new-made  grave 
Might   hear.      I   trembled,   for   the    truth   was 
known, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  215 

He  with  this  child  had  thus  been  left  alone, 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food, — but  he 
In    mingled  pride  and   awe  cowered  near   his 

throne, 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity, 
Knew  naught  beyond  those  walls,  nor  what  such 

change  might  be. 

XXVIII. 

And  he  was  troubled  at  a  charm  withdrawn 
Thus  suddenly;  that  sceptres  ruled  no  more — 
That  even  from  gold  the  dreadful  strength  was 

gone 
Which    once    made    all    things    subject   to    its 

power — 
Such  wonder  seized  him,  as  if  hour  by  hour 
The  past  had  come  again ;  and  the  swift  fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore 
To  desolateness,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirred,  who  saw  such  awful  change 

befall. 

XXIX. 

A  mighty  crowd,  such  as  the  wide  land  pours 
Once  in  a  thousand  years,  now  gathered  round 
The  fallen  tyrant ; — like  the  rush  of  showers 
Of  hail  in  spring,  pattering  along  the  ground, 
Their  many  footsteps  fell,  else  came  no  sound 
From  the  wide  multitude  :  that  lonely  man 
Then  knew  the  burthen  of  his  change,  and  found, 
Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan, 
Refuge  from  the  keen  looks  which  thro'  his  bosom 
ran. 

XXX. 

And  he  was  faint  withal.     I  sate  beside  him 
Upon  the  earth,  and  took  that  child  so  fair 
From  his  weak  arms,  that  ill  might  none  betide 
him 


216  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Or  her ; — when  food  was  brought  to  them,  her 

share 
To  his  averted  lips  the  child  did  hear; 
But  when  she  saw  he  had  enough,  she  ate 
And  wept  the  while ; — the  lonely  man's  despair 
Hunger  then  overcame,  and  of  his  state 
Forgetful,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he  sate. 

XXXI. 

Slowly  the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Past,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some  lone  dell 
The  gathering  of  a  wind  among  the  woods — 
And  he  is  fallen  !  they  cry  ;  he  who  did  dwell 
Like  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught  more  fell, 
Among  our  homes,  is  fallen  !  the  murderer 
Who  slaked  his  thirsting  soul  as  from  a  well 
Of  blood  and  tears  with  ruin  !     He  is  here ! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none  may  him 


Then  was  heard — He  who  judged  let  him  be 

brought 
To  judgment !   Blood  for  blood  cries  from  the 

soil 
On    which     his    crimes    have    deep    pollution 

wrought ! 
Shall  Othman  only  unavenged  despoil '? 
Shall  they,  who  by  the  stress  of  grinding  toil 
Wrest  from  the  unwilling  earth  his  luxuries, 
Perish  for  crime,  while  his  foul  blood  may  boil, 
Or  creep  within  his  veins  at  will  ? — Arise  ! 
And  to  high  justice  make  her  chosen  sacrifice. 

XXXIII. 

"  What  do  ye  seek  ?  what  fear  ye  V  "  then  I  cried, 
Suddenly  starting  forth,  "  that  ye  should  shed 
The  blood  of  Othman — if  your  hearts  are  tried 
In  the  true  love  of  freedom,  cease  to  dread 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  217 

This   one   poor   lonely  man — beneath   Heaven 

shed 
In  purest  light  above  us  all,  through  earth, 
Maternal    earth,    who   doth    her    sweet    smiles 

spread 
For  all,  let  him  go  free  ;  until  the  worth 
Of  human  nature  win  from  these  a  second  birth. 

XXXIV. 

"  What  call  ye  justice  ?     Is  there  one  who  ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wished  another's  ill '? — 
Are  ye  all  pure  ?     Let  those  stand  forth  who 

hear, 
And  tremble  not.     Shall  they  insult  and  kill, 
If  such  they  be  ?  their  mild  eyes  can  they  fill 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite '? 
Alas,  such  were  not  pure — the  chastened  will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of  love,  and  not  revenge,  and  terror  and  despite." 

XXXV. 

The  murmur  of  the  people,  slowly  dying, 
Paused  as  I  spake  ;  then   those  who  near   me 

were, 
Cast  gentle  looks  where  the  lone  man  was  lying 
Shrouding  his  head,  which  now  that  infant  fair 
Clasped  on  her  lap  in  silence  ; — through  the  air 
Sobs  were  then  heard,  and  many  kissed  my  feet 
In  pity's  madness,  and,  to  the  despair 
Of  him  whom  late  they  cursed,  a  solace  sweet 
His  very  victims  brought — soft  looks  and  speeches 

meet. 


Then  to  a  home,  for  his  repose  assigned, 
Accompanied  by  the  still  throng  he  went 
In  silence,  where,  to  soothe  his  rankling  mind, 
Some  likeness  of  his  ancient  state  was  lent ; 
And,  if  his  heart  could  have  been  innocent 


218  TMK    KKVOr.T    OF    [SLAM. 

As   those   who    pardoned    him,   he    might   have 

ended 
His  days  in  peace ;   but  his  straight  lips  were 

bent, 
Men  said,  into  a  smile  which  guile  portended, 
A  sight  with  which  that  child  like  hope  with  fear 

was  blended. 

XXXVII. 

'Twas  midnight  now,  the  eve  of  that  great  day, 
Whereon  the  many  nations  at  whose  call 
The  chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted  away, 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  Festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  equality  of  all 
Who  live.     So  to  their  homes,  to  dream  or  wake 
All  went.     The  sleepless  silence  did  recall 
Laone  to  my  thoughts,  with  hopes  that  make 
The  flood  recede  from  which  their  thirst  they  seek 
to  slake. 


The  dawn  flowed  forth,  and   from   its   purple 

fountains 
I   drank   those    hopes  which    make   the   spirit 

quail, 
As  to  the  plain  between  the  misty  mountains 
And  the  great  City,  with  a  countenance  pale 
I  went : — it  was  a  sight  which  might  avail 
To  make  men  weep  exulting  tears,  for  whom 
Now  first  from  human  power  the  reverend  veil 
Was  torn,  to  see  Earth  from  her  general  womb 
Pour  forth  her  swarming  sons  to  a  fraternal  doom  : 

XXXIX. 

To  see,  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morning, 
The  signs  of  that  innumerable  host, 
To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the  warning 
Of  Earth  to  Heaven  from  its  free  children  tost, 
While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea  lost 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  219 

In  wavering  light,  and,  starring  the  blue  sty 
The  citv's  myriad  spires  of  gold,  almost 
With  human  joy  made  mute  society 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  hereafter  be. 

XL. 

To  see,  like  some  vast  island  from  the  Ocean, 
The  Altar  of  the  Federation  rear 
Its  pile  i'  the  midst ;  a  work,  which  the  devotion 
Of  millions  in  one  night  created  there, 
Sudden,  as  when  the  moonrise  makes  appear 
Strange  clouds  in  the  east ;  a  marble  pyramid 
Distinct  with  steps :  that  mighty  shape  did  wear 
The  light  of  genius ;  its  still  shadow  hid 
Far  ships :  to  know  its  height  the  morning  mists 
forbid ! 

XLI. 

To  hear  the  restless  multitudes  forever 
Around  the  base  of  that  great  Altar  flow, 
As  on  some  mountain  islet  burst  and  shiver 
Atlantic  waves  ;  and  solemnly  and  slow 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and  fro, 
To  feel  the  dreamlike  music,  which  did  swim 
Like  beams  through  floating  clouds  on  waves  be- 
low, 
Falling  in  pauses  from  that  Altar  dim 
As   silver-sounding   tongues   breathed   an    aerial 
hymn. 

XLII. 

To  hear,  to  see,  to  live,  was  on  that  morn 
Lethean  joy !  so  that  all  those  assembled 
Cast  off  their  memories  of  the  past  outworn  : 
Two  only  bosoms  with  their  own  life  trembled, 
And  mine  was  one, — and  we  had  both  dissem- 
bled; 
So  with  a  beating  heart  I  went,  and  one, 
Who  having  much,  covets  yet  more,  resembled ; 


220  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not  won, 
He  walks  in  lonely  gloom  beneath  the  noonday  sun. 

XLiir. 
To  the  great  Pyramid  I  came  :  its  stair 
With  female  quires  was  thronged :  the  loveliest 
Among  the  free,  grouped  with   its   sculptures 

rare. 
As  I  approached,  the  morning's  golden  mist, 
Which  now  the  wonder-stricken  breezes  kist 
With  their  cold  lips,  fled,  and  the  summit  shone 
Like  Athos  seen  from  Samothracia,  drest 
In  earliest  light  by  vintagers,  and  one 
Sate  there,  a  female  shape  upon  an  ivory  throne. 


A  Form  most  like  the  imagined  habitant 
Of  silver  exhalations  sprung  from  dawn, 
By  winds  which  feed  on  sunrise  woven,  to  en- 
chant 
The  faiths  of  men  :  all  mortal  eyes  were  drawn, 
As  famished  mariners  through  strange  seas  gone, 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watch-tower,  by  the  light 
Of  those  divinest  lineaments — alone 
With  thoughts  which  none  could  share,  from  that 
fair  sight 
I  turned  in  sickness,  for  a  veil  shrouded  her  coun- 
tenance bright. 

XLV. 

And,  neither  did  I  hear  the  acclamations 
Which,  from  brief  silence  bursting,  filled  the  air, 
With  her  strange  name  and  mine,  from  all  the 

nations 
Which  we,  they  said,  in  strength  had  gathered 

there 
From  the  sleep  of  bondage ;  nor  the  vision  fair 
Of  that  bright  pageantry  beheld, — but  blind 
And  silent,  as  a  breathing  corpse  did  fare, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  221 

Leaning  upon  my  friend,  till,  like  a  wind 
To  fevered  cheeks,  a  voice  flowed  o'er  my  troubled 
mind. 

XL  VI. 

Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly-gifted, 

To  one  whom  fiends  enthrall,  this  voice  to  me  ; 

Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  uplifted, 

I  was  so  calm  and  joyous. — I  could  see 

The  platform  where  we  stood,  the  statues  three 

Which  kept  their  marble  watch  on  that  high 

shrine, 
The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea ; 
As  when  eclipse  hath  passed,  things  sudden  shine. 
To  men's  astonished  eyes  most  clear  and  crystalline. 


At  first  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously : 
But  soon  her  voice  that  calmness  which  it  shed 
Gathered,  and — "  Thou  art  whom  I  sought  to  see, 
And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here,"  she  said : 
"  I  had  a  dear  friend  once,  but  he  is  dead  ! — 
And  of  all  those  on  the  wide  earth  who  breathe, 
Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone — I  spread 
This  veil  between  us  two,  that  thou  beneath 
Should'st  image  one  who  may  have  been  long  lost 
in  death. 

XL  VIII. 

"  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth  pardon  me  ? 
Yes.  but  those  joys  which  silence  well  requite 
Forbid  reply :  why  men  have  chosen  me 
To  be  the  Priestess  of  this  holiest  rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods  of  light 
Which  flow  over  the  world,  have  borne  me  hither 
To  meet  thee,  long  most  dear ;  and  now  unite 
Thine    hand   with   mine,  and    may   all    comfort 
wither 
From  both  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy  now  beats 
together, 


222  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XLIX. 

"  If  our  own  will  as  others'  law  we  bind, 
If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here  we  fear; 
If  as  ourselves  we  cease  to  love  our  kind  ! " — 
She  paused,  and  pointed  upwards — sculptured 

there 
Three  shapes  around  her  ivory  throne  appear ; 
One  was  a  Giant,  like  a  child  asleep 
On  a  loose  rock,  whose  grasp  crushed,  as  it  were 
In  dream,  sceptres  and  crowns  ;  and  one  did  keep 
Its  watchful   eyes   in  doubt  whether  to  smile  or 

weep; 

L. 

A  Woman  sitting  on  the  sculptured  disk 
Of  the  broad  earth,  and  feeding  from  one  breast 
A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk  ; 
Her  looks  were  sweet  as  Heaven's  when  loveliest 
In  Autumn  eves. — The  third  Image  was  drest 
In  white  wings  swift  as  clouds  in  winter  skies. 
Beneath  his  feet,  'mongst  ghastliest  forms,  represt 
Lay  Faith,  an  obscene  worm,  who  sought  to  rise, 
While  calmly  on  the  Sun  he  turned  his  diamond 
eyes. 

LI. 

Beside  that  Image  then  I  sate,  while  she 

Stood,  'mid  the  throngs  which  ever  ebbed  and 

flowed 
Like  light  amid  the  shadows  of  the  sea 
Cast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on  the  crowd 
That  touch,  which  none  who  feels  forgets,  be- 
stowed ; 
And  whilst  the  sun  returned  the  steadfast  gaze 
Of  the  great  Image  as  o'er  Heaven  it  glode, 
That  rite  had  place  ;   it  ceased  when  sunset's 
blaze 
Burned  o'er  the  isles ;  all  stood  in  joy  and  deep 
amaze ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  223 


When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 
Laone's  voice  was  felt,  and  through  the  air 
Her  thrilling  gestures  spoke,  most  eloquently  fai 


"  Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset !  swift  and  strong 
As  new-fledged  Eagles,  beautiful  and  young, 
That  float  among  the  blinding  beams  of  morning ; 
And  underneath  thy  feet  writhe  Faith,  and  Folly, 
Custom,  and  Hell,  and  mortal  Melancholy — 
Hark !  the  Earth  starts  to  hear  the  mighty  warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled, 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee  now : 
To  thy  voice  their  hearts  have  trembled, 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  which  flow 
"With  one  wide  wind  as  it  flies  ! 
Wisdom  !  thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail  thee,  and  the  elements  they  chain 
And  their  own  will  to  swell  the  glory  of  thy  train. 


"  O  Spirit  vast  and  deep  as  Night  and  Heaven  ! 
Mother  and  soul  of  all  to  which  is  given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being, 
Lo  !  thou  dost  reascend  the  human  heart, 
Thy  throne  of  power,  almighty  as  thou  wert, 
In  dreams  of  Poets  old  grown  pale  by  seeing 
The  shade  of  thee  : — now,  millions  start 
To  feel  thy  lightnings  through  them  burning : 
Nature,  or  God,  or  Love,  or  Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy,  the  sad  tears  turning 
To  mutual  smiles,  a  drainless  treasure, 
Descends  amidst  us; — Scorn  and  Hate, 
Revenge  and  Selfishness,  are  desolate — 
A  hundred  nations  swear  that  there  shall  be 
Pity  and  Peace  and  Love,  among  the  good  a 
free  ! 


224  I  UK    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


"  Eldest  of  things,  divine  Equality  ! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves  of  thee, 
The  Angels  of  thy  sway,  who  pour  around  thee 
Treasures  from  all  the  cells  of  human  thought, 
And  from  the  Stars,  and  from  the  Ocean  brought, 
And  the  last  living  heart  whose  beatings  bound  thee  : 
The  powerful  and  the  wise  had  sought 
Thy  coming ;  thou  in  light  descending 
O'er  the  wide  land  which  is  thine  own, 
Like  the  spring  whose  breath  is  blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Comest  upon  the  paths  of  men  ! 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy  ken, 
And  all  her  children  herein  glory  meet 
To  feed  upon  thy  smiles,  and  clasp  thy  sacred  feet. 

4. 
"  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !  the  plains  and  moun- 
tains, 
The  gray  sea-shore,  the  forests,  and  the  fountains, 
Are  haunts  of  happiest  dwellers ;  man  and  woman, 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may  freely  borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their  sorrow  ! 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human. 
A  stormy  night's  serenest  morrow, 
Whose  showers  are  pity's  gentle  tears, 
Whose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those  that  die 
Like  infants,  without  hopes  or  fears, 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that  lie 
In  blended  hearts,  now  holds  dominion  ; 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which,  upwards  on  a  pinion 
Borne,  swift  as  sunrise,  far  illumines  space, 
And  clasps  this  barren  world  in  its  own  bright 
embrace  ! 


"  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !   the  fruits  are  glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds  are  flowing 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  22J 

O'er  the  ripe  corn,  the  birds  and  beasts  are  dream- 
ing— 
Never  again  may  blood  of  bird  or  beast 
Stain  with  its  venomous  stream  a  human  feast, 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steaming ; 
Avenging  poisons  shall  have  ceased 

To  feed  disease  and  fear  and  madness, 

The  dwellers  of  the  earth  and  air 

Shall  throng  around  our  steps  in  gladness, 

Seeking  their  food  or  refuge  there. 
Our  toil  from  thought  all  glorious  forms  shall  cull, 
To  make  this  earth,  our  home,  more  beautiful, 
And  Science,  and  her  sister  Poesy, 
Shall  clothe  in  light  the  fields  and  cities  of  the  free  ! 


"  Victory,  Victory  to  the  prostrate  nations  ! 
Bear  witness.  Xight,  and  ye,  mute  Constellations, 
Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalline  cars ! 
Thoughts  have  gone  forth  whose  powers  can  sleep 

no  more ! 
Victory  !  Victory  !    Earth's  remotest  shore, 
Regions  which  groan  beneath  the  Antarctic  stars, 
The  green  lands  cradled  in  the  roar 
Of  western  waves,  and  wildernesses 
Peopled  and  vast,  which  skirt  the  oceans 
Where  morning  dyes  her  golden  tresses, 
Shall  soon  partake  our  high  emotions : 
Kings  shall  turn  pale  !    Almighty  Fear, 
The  Fiend-God,  when  our  charmed  name  he  hear, 
Shall  fade  like  shadow  from  his  thousand  fanes, 
While    Truth   with   Joy    enthroned    o'er  his   lost 
empire  reigns  ! " 

LIII. 

Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night  entwining 
Their  dim  woof,  floated  o'er  the  infinite  throng ; 
She  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness  shining, 
In  tones  whose  sweetness  silence  did  prolong, 
vol.  i.  15 


J26  THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 

As  if  to  Lingering  winds  they  did  belong, 
Poured  forth  her  inmost  soul:  a  passionate  speech 
Willi  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  woven  among, 
Which  whoso  heard,  was  mute,  for  it  could  teach 
To   rapture   like  her  own   all  listening  hearts  to 
reach. 

LIV. 

Her   voice   was   as   a    mountain   stream   which 

sweeps 
The  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  to  the  lake, 
And  in  some  deep  and  narrow  bay  then  sleeps 
In  the  shadow  of  the  shores ;  as  dead  leaves  wake 
Under  the  wave,  in   flowers  and  herbs  which 

make 
Those   green    depths   beautiful  when  skies  are 

blue, 
The  multitude  so  moveless  did  partake 
Such  living  change,  and  kindling  murmurs  flew 
As  o'er  that  speechless  calm  delight  and  wonder 

grew. 


Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scattered  then 
In  groups  around  the  fires,  which  from  the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  mountain  glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far :  the  banquet  of  the  free 
Was  spread  beneath  many  a  dark  cypress  tree, 
Beneath  whose  spires,  which  swayed  in  the  red 

light 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty, 
And  Hope,  and  Justice,  and  Laone's  name, 
Earth's   children   did   a  woof  of  happy  converse 

frame. 

LAI. 

Their   feast   was    such    as   Earth,   the   general 

mother, 
Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when  she  smiles 


THE    REVOLT    OE    ISLAM.  227 

In  the  embrace  of  Autumn  ; — to  each  other 
As  when  some  parent  fondly  reconciles 
Her  warring  children,  she  their  wrath  beguiles 
With  her  own  sustenance  ;  they  relenting  weep  : 
Such  was  this  Festival,  which  from  their  isles, 
And  continents,  and  winds,  and  oceans  deep, 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share,  that  fly,  or  walk, 
or  creep. 

LVII. 

Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence,  for  gore 
Or  poison  none  this  festal  did  pollute, 
But  piled  on  high,  an  overflowing  store 
Of  pomegranates,  and  citrons,  fairest  fruit, 
Melons  and  dates,  and  figs,  and  many  a  root 
Sweet  and  sustaining,  and  bright  grapes  ere  yet 
Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could  transmute 
Into  a  mortal  bane,  and  brown  corn  set 
In  baskets  ;   with  pure  streams  their  thirsting  lips 
they  wet. 

LYIII. 

Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine, 
And  every  deepest  look  and  holiest  mind 
Fed  on  her  form,  though  now  those  tones  divine 
Were  silent  as  she  past ;  she  did  unwind 
Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her  own  kind 
She  mixed ;  some  impulse  made  my  heart  refrain 
From  seeking  her  that  night,  so  I  reclined 
Amidst  a  group,  where  on  the  utmost  plain 
A  festal  watch-fire  burned  beside  the  dusky  main. 

LIX. 

And  joyous  was  our  feast ;  pathetic  talk, 
And  wit,  and  harmony  of  choral  strains, 
While  far  Orion  o'er  the  waves  did  walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us  in  chains 
Of  sweet  captivity,  which  none  disdains 
Who  feels :  but,  when  his  zone  grew  dim  in  mist 


228  THE    UEVOI/f    OF    ISLAM. 

Which  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom,  o'er  the  plains 
The  multitudes  went  homeward,  to  their  rest, 
Which  that  delightful  day  with  its  own    shadow 
blest. 


CANTO   VI. 

I. 
Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering  sea, 
Weaving  swift  language  from  impassioned  themes 
With  that  dear  friend  I  lingered,  who  to  me 
So  late  had  been  restored,  beneath  the  gleams 
Of  the  silver  stars  ;  and  ever  in  soft  dreams 
Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  converse  lapt 
Our  willing  fancies,  till  the  pallid  beams 
Of  the  last  watch-lire  fell,  and  darkness  wrapt 
The  waves,  and  each  bright  chain  of  floating  fire 
was  snapt. 


And  till  we  came  even  to  the  City's  wall 

And  the  great  gate,  then,  none  knew  whence  or 

why, 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall  : 
And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless  past  us  by, 
And  stared  and  spoke  not ;  then  with  piercing 

cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed  women,  by  the  shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven, — tumultously 
Hither  and  thither  hurrying  with  pale  cheeks, 
Each  one   from   fear  unknown   a   sudden    refuge 

seeks — 


Then,  rallying  cries  of  treason  and  of  danger 
Resounded  :    and — "  They  come  !    to  arms  !    to 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  229 

The  Tyrant  is  amongst  us,  and  the  stranger 
Comes  to  enslave  us  in  his  name  !  to  arms ! " 
In  vain  :  for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend  who  charms 
Strength  to  forswear  her  right,   those   millions 

swept 
Like  waves  before  the  tempest — these  alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause  I  leapt 
On  the  gate's  turret,  and  in  rage  and  grief  and 

scorn  I  wept ! 

IV. 

For  to  the  North  I  saw  the  town  on  fire, 
And  its  red  light  made  morning  pallid  now, 
Which  burst  over  wide  Asia. — Louder,  higher, 
The  yells  of  victory  and  the  screams  of  woe 
I  heard  approach,  and  saw  the  throng  below 
Stream   through   the   gates    like    foam-wrought 

waterfalls 
Fed  from  a  thousand  storms — the  fearful  glow 
Of  bombs  flares  overhead — at  intervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among  them  falls. 

v. 

And  now  the  horsemen  come — and  all  was  done 
Swifter  than  I  have  spoken — I  beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  unrisen  sun. 
I  rushed  among  the  rout  to  have  repelled 
That  miserable  flight — one  moment  quelled 
By  voice",  and  looks,  and  eloquent  despair, 
As  if  reproach  from  their  own  hearts  withheld 
Their  steps,  they  stood ;  but  soon  came  pouring 

there 
New   multitudes,    and   did   those   rallied   bands 

o'erbear. 

VI. 

I  strove,  as  drifted  on  some  cataract 

By  irresistible  streams,  some  wretch  might  strive 

Who  hears  its  fatal  roar :  the  files  compact 


|30  nil'-    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 

Whelmed  me,  and  from  the  gate  availed  to  drive 
With  quickening  impulse,  as  cadi  bolt  did  rive 
Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm:  into  the  plain 
Disgorged  at  length  the  dead  and  the  alive,  _ 
In  one  dread  mass,  were  parted,  and  the  stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the  fields  like 
rain. 

VII. 

For  now  the  despot's  blood-hounds  with  their  prey 
Unarmed  and  unaware,  were  gorging  deep 
Their  gluttony  of  death  ;  the  loose  array 
Of   horsemen    o'er   the    wide   fields   murdering 

sweep, 
And  with  loud  laughter  for  their  tyrant  reap 
A  harvest  sown  with  other  hopes ;  the  while, 
Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis  keep 
A  killing  rain  of  fire  : — when  the  waves  smile 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  volcano  isle. 

VIII. 

Thus  sudden,  unexpected  feast  was  spread 

For  the   carrion  fowls    of  heaven. — I   saw  the 

sight — 
I  moved — I  lived — as  o'er  the  heaps  of  dead, 
Whose  stony  eyes  glared  in  the  morning  light, 
I  trod ;  to  me  there  came  no  thought  of  flight, 
But  with  loud  cries  of  scorn  which  whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death,  felt  in  his  veins  the  might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I  stirred, 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts  recurred. 

IX. 

A  band  of  brothers  gathering  round  me.  made, 
Although  unarmed,  a  steadfast  front,  and  still 
lletreating,  with  stern  looks  beneath  the  shade 
Of  gathered  eyebrows,  did  the  victors  fill 
With  doubt  even  in  success ;  deliberate  will 
Inspired  our  growing  troop  ;  not  overthrown 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  231 

It  gained  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill, 
And  ever  still  our  comrades  were  hewn  down. 
And  their  defenceless  limbs  beneath  our  footsteps, 
strown. 

x. 

Immovably  we  stood — in  joy  I  found, 
Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 
Among  the  mountain  vapours  driven  around, 
The  old  man  whom  I  loved — his  eyes  divine 
With  a  mild  look  of  courage  answered  mine, 
And  my  young  friend  was  near,  and  ardently 
His  hand  grasped  mine  a  moment — now  the  line 
Of  war  extended,  to  our  rallying  cry, 
As  myriads  nocked  in  love  and  brotherhood  to  die. 


Forever  while  the  sun  was  climbing  heaven 
The  horsemen  hewed  our  unarmed  myriads  down 
Safely,  though  when  by  thirst  of  carnage  driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly  overthrown 
By  hundreds  leaping  on  them :  flesh  and  bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts ;  then  the  shaft 
Of  the  artillery  from  the  sea  was  thrown 
More  fast  and  fiery,  and  the  conquerors  laughed 
In  pride"  to  hear  the  wind  our  screams  of  torment 
waft. 

XII. 

For  on  one  side  alone  the  hill  gave  shelter, 
So  vast  that  phalanx  of  unconquered  men, 
And  there  the  living  in  their  blood  did  welter 
Of  the  dead  and  dying,  which,  in  that  green  glen, 
Like  stifled  torrents,  made  a  plashy  fen 
Under  the  feet — thus  was  the  butchery  waged 
While  the  sun  clomb  heaven's  eastern  steep — 

but  when 
It  'gan  to  sink,  a  fiercer  combat  raged, 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies  were  engaged. 


182  THE    KKVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 


XIII. 

Within  a  cave  upon  the  hill  were  found 

A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instrument 

Of  those  who  war  but  on  their  native  ground 

For  natural  rights:  a  shout  of  joyance  senl 

Even  from  our  hearts  the  wide   air  pierced  and 

rent 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  and  the  best 
Seized;   and  each  sixth,  thus  armed,  did  now 

present 
A  line  which  covered  and  sustained  the  rest, 
A  confident  phalanx,  which  the  foes  on  every  side 

invest. 

XIV. 

That  onset  turned  the  foes  to  flight  almost ; 

But  soon  they  saw  their  present  strength,  and 

knew 
That  coming  night  would  to  our  resolute  host 
Bring  victory ;  so  dismounting  close  they  drew 
Their  glittering  files,  and  then  the  combat  grew 
Unequal  but  most  horrible  ; — and  ever 
Our  myriads,  whom  the  swift  bolt  overthrew, 
Or  the  red  sword,  failed  like  a  mountain  river 
Which  rushes  forth  in  foam  to  sink  in  sands  for- 
ever. 

xv. 

Sorrow  and  shame,  to  see  with  their  own  kind 
Our  human  brethren  mix,  like  beasts  of  blood 
To  mutual  ruin  armed  by  one  behind, 
Who  sits  and  scoffs ! — That  friend  so  mild  and 

good 
Who  like  its  shadow  near  my  youth  had  stood, 
Was  stabbed  ! — my  old  preserver's  hoary  hair. 
With  the  flesh  clingiug  to  its  roots,  was  strewed 
Under  my  feet !     I  lost  all  sense  or  care, 
And  like  the  rest  I  grew  desperate  and  unaware. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  233 


XVI. 

The  battle  became  ghastlier,  in  the  midst 
I  paused,  and  saw,  how  ugly  and  how  fell, 

0  Hate !   thou   art,   even    when   thy  life   thou 

shedd'st 
For  love.     The  ground  in  many  a  little  dell 
Was  broken,  up  and  down  whose  steeps  befell 
Alternate  victory  and  defeat,  and  there 
The  combatants  with  rage  most  horrible 
Strove,  and  their  eyes  started  with  cracking  stare, 
And  impotent  their  tongues  they  lolled  into  the  air, 

XVII. 

Flaccid  and  foamy,  like  a  mad  dog's  hanging ; 
Want,  and  Moon-madness,  and  the  Pest's  swift 

bane 
When   its   shafts   smite — while    yet   its   bow  is 

twanging — 
Have  each  their  mark  and  sign — some  ghastly 

stain ; 
And  this  was  thine,  O  War !  of  hate  and  pain 
Thou  loathed  slave.     I  saw  all  shapes  of  death, 
And  minister'd  to  many,  o'er  the  plain 
While    carnage   in  the    sunbeam's  warmth  did 

seethe, 
Till  twilight  o'er  the  east  wove  her  serenest  wreath. 

XVIII. 

The  few  who  yet  survived,  resolute  and  firm, 
Around  me  fought.     At  the  decline  of  day, 
Winding  above  the  mountain's  snowy  term, 
New  banners  shone :  they  quivered  in  the  ray 
Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb — ere  night  the  array 
Of  fresh  troops  hemmed  us  in — of  those  brave 
bands 

1  soon  survived  alone — and  now  I  lay 
Vanquished  and  faint,  the  grasp  of  bloody  hands 

[  felt,  and  saw  on  high  the  glare  of  falling  brands ; 


231  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XIX. 

When  on  my  foes  a  sudden  terror  came, 

And   they  tied,   scattering. — Lo !    with    reinless 

speed 
A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame. 
Comes  trampling  o'er  the  dead;  the  living  bleed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of  that  tremendous  steed, 
On  which,  like  to  an  angel,  robed  in  white, 
Sate  one  waving  a  sword;  the  host-  recede 
And  fly,  as  through  their  ranks,  with  awful  might, 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phantom  swift 

and  bright ; 

xx. 

And  its  path  made  a  solitude. — I  rose 
And  marked  its  coming :  it  relaxed  its  course 
As  it  approached  me,  and  the  wind  that  flows 
Through  night,  bore  accents  to  mine  ear  whose 

force 
Might  create  smiles  in  death. — The  Tartar  horse 
Paused,  and  I  saw  the   shape  its  might  which 

swayed, 
And  heard  her  musical  pants,  like  the  sweet  source 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said, 
"  Mount  with  me,  Laon,  now  " — I  rapidly  obeyed. 

xxi. 

Then  "Away!  away!"  she  cried,  and  stretched 

her  sword 
As  'twere  a  scourge  over  the  courser's  head, 
And  lightly  shook  the  reins. — We  spake  no  word, 
But  like  the  vapour  of  the  tempest  lied 
Over  the  plain ;  her  dark  hair  was  dispread, 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  lingering  blast ; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  .strings  it  spread 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  tied  fast. 
As  o'er  their  glimmering  forms  the  steed's  broad 

shadow  past ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  235 


XXII. 

And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fire  and  dust, 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents  rise  in  spray, 
And  turbulence,  as  if  a  whirlwind's  gust 
Surrounded  us ; — and  still  away  !  away  ! 
Through   the   desert  night  we  sped,  while   she 

alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  which  we  neared,  whose 

crest 
Crowned  with  a  marble  ruin,  in  the  ray 
Of  the  obscure  stars  gleamed ; — its  rugged  breast 
The  steed  strained  up,  and  then  his  impulse  did 

arrest, 


A  rocky  hill  which  overhung  the  Ocean  : — 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed  that  panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur  of  the  motion 
Of  waters,  as  in  spots  forever  haunted 
By  the   choicest    winds   of  heaven,  which   are 

enchanted 
To  music  by  the  wand  of  Solitude, 
That  wizard  wild,  and  the  far  tents  implanted 
Upon  the  plain,  be  seen  by  those  who  stood 
Thence  marking  the  dark  shore  of  Ocean's  curved 

flood. 

XXIV. 

One  moment  these  were  heard  and  seen — another 
Past ;  and  the  two  who  stood  beneath  that  night, 
Each  only  heard,  or  saw,  or  felt,  the  other ; 
As  from  the  lofty  steed  she  did  alight, 
Cytlma  (for,  from  the  eyes  whose  deepest  light 
Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel  pale 
With  influence  strange  of  mournfullest  delight, 
My  own  sweet  Cythua  looked,)  with  joy  did  quail, 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human  weakness 
fail. 


236  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

XXV. 

And  for  a  space  in  my  embrace  she  rested, 
Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  reposing, 
While  my  faint  arms  her  languid  frame  invested  : 
At  length  she  looked  on  me,  and  half  unclosing 
Her  tremulous  lips,  said :   "  Friend,  thy  bands 

were  losing 
The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King 
In    bonds. — I    burst    them    then,    and    swiftly 

choosing 
The  time,  did  seize  a  Tartar's  sword,  and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and  swift  as  on  the  whirlwind's 

wing, 

XXVI. 

"  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond  pursuer, 
And  we  are  here." — Then,  turning  to  the  steed. 
She  pressed  the  white  moon  on  his  front  with 

pure 
And  rose-like  lips,  and  many  a  fragrant  weed 
From  the   green  ruin  plucked,  that   he  might 

feed ; — 
But  I  to  a  stone  seat  that  Maiden  led, 
And  kissing  her  fair  eyes,  said,  "  Thou  hast  need 
Of  rest,"  and  I  heaped  up  the  courser's  bed 
In    a  green    mossy  nook,  with   mountain   flowers 

dispread. 


Within  that  ruin,  where  a  shattered  portal 
Looks  to  the  eastern  stars,  abandoned  now 
By  man,  to  be  the  home  of  things  immortal, 
Memories,  like  awful  ghosts  which  come  and  go, 
And  must  inherit  all  he  builds  below, 
When  he  is  gone,  a  hall  stood ;  o'er  whose  roof 
Fair  clinging  weeds  with  ivy  pale  did  grow, 
Clasping  its  grey  rents  with  a  verdurous  woof, 
hanging  dome  of  leaves,  a  canopy  moon-proof. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  237 


XX  VII L 

The  autumnal  winds,  as  If  spell-bound,  had  made 
A  natural  couch  of  leaves  in  that  recess, 
Which  seasons  none  disturbed,  but  in  the  shade 
Of  flowering  parasites,  did  spring  love  to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry  loneliness 
Of   those    dead   leaves,    shedding   their   stars, 

whene'er 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings  might  caress ; 
AVhose  intertwining  lingers  ever  there, 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  filled  the  listening 

air. 

XXIX. 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  or  what  sweet  dream 
May  pilot  us  through  caverns  strange  and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the  stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirlpools  bear, 
Spreading  swift  wings  as  sails  to  the  dim  air ; 
Nor  should  we  seek  to  know,  so  the  devotion 
Of  love  and  gentle  thoughts  be  heard  still  there 
Louder  and  louder  from  the  utmost  Ocean 
Of  universal  life,  attuning  its  commotion. 

XXX. 

To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure  !    Oblivion  wrapt 
Our  spirits,  and  the  fearful  overthrow 
Of  public  hope  was  from  our  being  snapt, 
Though  linked  years  had  bound  it  there  ;  for  now 
A  power,  a  thirst,  a  knowledge,  which  below 
All  thoughts,  like  light  beyond  the  atmosphere, 
Clothing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth  ever  flow, 
Came  on  us,  as  we  sate  in  silence  there, 
Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear  azure  air. 

XXXI. 

In  silence  which  doth  follow  talk  that  causes 
The  baffled  heart  to  speak  with  sighs  and  tears, 


238  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

When  wildering passion  Bwalloweth  up  the  pauses 
Of  inexpressive  speech: — the  youthful  years 
Which  we  together  past,  their  hopes  and  fears, 
The  blood  itself  which  ran  within  our  frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which  endears 
The  thoughts  expressed  by  them,  our  very  names, 
And  all  the  winged  hours  which  speechless  memory 
claims, 

XXXII. 

Had  found  a  voice  : — and  ere  that  voice  did  pass, 
The  night  grew  damp  and  dim,  and  through  a 

rent 
Of  the  ruin  where  we  sate,  from  the  morass, 
A  wandering  Meteor,  by  some  wild  wind  sent, 
Hung  high  in  the  green  dome,  to  which  it  lent 
A  faint  and  pallid  lustre ;  while  the  song 
Of  blasts,  in  which  its  blue  hair  quivering  bent, 
Strewed   strangest   sounds   the   moving   leaves 

among ; 
A  wondrous  light,  the  sound  as  of  a  spirit's  tongue. 

XXXIII. 

The  Meteor  showed  the  leaves  on  which  we  sate, 
And  Cythna's  glowing  arms,  and  the  thick  ties 
Of  her  soft  hair,  which  bent  with  gathered  weight 
My  neck  near  hers,  her  dark  and  deepening  eyes, 
Which,  as  twin  phantoms  of  one  star  that  lies 
O'er  a  dim  well,  move,  though  the  star  reposes, 
Swam  in  our  mute  and  liquid  ecstasies, 
Her  marble  brow,  and  eager  lips,  like  roses, 
With  their  own  fragrance  pale,  which  spring  but 
half  uncloses. 


XXXIV. 

The  Meteor  to  its  far  morass  returned : 

The  beating  of  our  veins  one  interval 

Made  still;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood  that  burned 

Within  her  frame,  mingle  with  mine  and  fall 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  239 

Around  my  heart  like  fire  ;  and  over  all 
A  mist  was  spread,  the  sickness  of*  a  deep 
And  speechless  swoon  of  joy,  as  might  befall 
Two  disunited  spirits  when  they  leap 
In  union  from  this  earth's  obscure  and  fading  sleep. 

XXXV. 

Was  it  one  moment  that  confounded  thus 

All  thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling,  into  one 

Unutterable  power,  which  shielded  us 

Even  from  our  own  cold  looks,  when  we  had 

gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness '?  or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon  and  sun, 
The  seasons  and  mankind,  their  changes  know, 
Left  fear  and  time  unfelt  by  us  alone  below  V 

xxxvi. 

I  know  not.     What  are  kisses  whose  fire  clasps 
The  failing  heart  in  languishment,  or  limb 
Twined  within  limb  ?  or  the  quick  dying  gasps 
Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  faint  eyes  swim 
Through  tears  of  a  wide  mist,  boundless  and 

dim, 
In  one  caress  ?     What  is  the  strong  control 
Which  leads  the  heart  that  dizzy  steep  to  climb, 
Where  far  over  the  world  those  vapours  roll, 
Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one  reposing 

soul  ? 


It  is  the  shadow  which  doth  float  unseen, 
But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality, 
Whose  divine  darkness  fled  not  from  that  green 
And  lone  recess,  where  lapt  in  peace  did  lie 
Our  linked  frames,  till,  from  the  changing  sky, 
That  night  and  still  another  day  had  fled ; 
And  then  I  saw  and  felt.     The  moon  was  high, 


240  ill  i:    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

And  clouds,  as  of  a  coming  storm,  were  spread 
Under  its  orb, — loud  winds  were  gathering  over- 
head. 


(\  thna's  sweet  lips  seemed  lurid  in  the  moon, 
Her  fairest  limbs  with  the  night  wind  were  chill, 
And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely  strewn 
O'er  her  pale  bosom : — all  within  was  still, 
And  the  sweet  peace  of  joy  did  almost  fill 
The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look  ; — 
And  we  sate  calmly,  though  that  rocky  hill, 
The  waves  contending  in  its  caverns  strook, 
For  they  foreknew  the  storm,  and  the  gray  ruin 
shook. 


There  we  unheeding  sate,  in  the  communion 

Of  interchanged  vows,  which,  with  a  rite 

Of  faith  most  sweet  and  sacred,   stamped   our 

union. — 
Few  were  the  living  hearts  which  could  unite 
Like  ours,  or  celebrate  a  bridal  night 
With  such  close  sympathies,  for  they  had  sprung 
From  linked  youth,  and  from  the  gentle  might 
Of  earliest  love,  delayed  and  cherished  long, 
Which  common  hopes  and  fears  made,  like  a  tei 

pest,  strong. 

XL. 

And  such  is  Nature's  law  divine,  that  those 
Who  grow  together  cannot  choose  but  love, 
If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose, 
Or  common  slavery  mar  what  else  might  move 
All  gentlest  thoughts  ;  as  in  the  sacred  grove 
Which  shades  the  springs  of  ^Ethiopian  Nile, 
That  living  tree,  which,  if  the  arrowy  dove 
Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear  awhile, 
But  its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while  the  sun- 
beams smile ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  241 


And  clings  to  them,  when  darkness  may  dissever 
The  close  caresses  of  all  duller  plants 
Which  bloom  on  the  wide  earth — thus  we  forever 
Were  linked,  for  love  had  nurst  us  in  the  haunts 
Where  knowledge  from  its  secret  source  enchants 
Young  hearts  with  the  fresh  music  of  its  spring- 
ing, 
Ere  yet  its  gathered  flood  feeds  human  wants,   * 
As  the  great  Nile  feeds  Egypt ;  ever  flinging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its  waves 
are  swinging. 

XLII. 

The  tones  of  Cythna's  voice  like  echoes  were 
Of  those  far  murmuring  streams ;  they  rose  and 

fell, 
Mixed  with  mine  own  in  the  tempestuous  air, — 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befell 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible, 
And   how   those   seeds   of  hope   might  yet  be 

sown, 
"Whose  fruit  is  evil's  mortal  poison  :  well 
For  us,  this  ruin  made  a  watch-tower  lone, 
But  Cythna's  eyes  looked  faint,  and  now  two  days 

were  gone 

XLIII. 

Since  she  had  food : — therefore  I  did  awaken 
The  Tartar  steed,  who,  from  his  ebon  mane, 
Soon  as  the  clinging  slumbers  he  had  shaken. 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen  rein, 
Following  me  obediently  ;  with  pain 
Of  heart,  so  deep  and  dread,  that  one  caress, 
When  lips  and  heart  refuse  to  part  again. 
Till  they  have  told  their  fill,  could  scarce  ex- 
press 
The  anguish  of  her  mute  and  fearful  tendei  ness, 
vol.  i.  16 


24  2  THE    It E VOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XLIV. 

Cythna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That  willing  steed — the  tempest  and  the  night, 
Which  gave  my  path  its  safety  as  I  rode 
Down  the  ravine  of  rocks,  did  soon  unite 
The  darkness  and  the  tumult  of  their  might, 
Borne  on  all  winds. — Far  through  the  streaming 

rain 
Floating  at  intervals  the  garments  white 
Of  Cythna  gleamed,  and  her  voice  once  again 
Came  to  me  on  the  gust,  and  soon  I  reached  the 

plain. 


I  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 

Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide  and  red 

Turned  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exultingly ; 

And  when  the  earth  beneath  his  tameless  tread, 

Shook  with  the  sullen  thunder,  he  would  spread 

His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 

Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings  ; — thus  Ave 

sped 
O'er  the  lit  plain,  and  soon  I  could  descry 
Where  Death  and  Fire  had  gorged  the  spoil  of 

victory. 


There  was  a  desolate  village  in  a  wood, 

Whose  bloom-inwoven  leaves  now  scattering  fed 

The  hungry  storm ;  it  was  a  place  of  blood, 

A  heap  of  hearthless  walls ; — the  flames  were 

dead 
Within  those  dwellings  now, — the  life  had  fled 
From  all  those  corpses  now, — but  the  wide  sky 
Flooded  with  lightning  Avas  ribbed  overhead 
By  the  black  rafters,  and  around  did  lie 
Women,  and  babes,   and  men,  slaughtered    con- 
fusedly. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  243 


XLVII. 

Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 
Dismounting,  I  beheld  those  corpses  stare 
With  horny" eyes  upon  each  other's  face, 
And  on  the  earth  and  on  the  vacant  air, 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters  where 
I    stooped    to    slake    my   thirst ; — 1   shrank    to 

taste. 
For  the  salt  bitterness  of  blood  was  there  ! 
But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought  in  haste 
If  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly  waste. 


Xo  living  thing  was  there  beside  one  woman, 
Whom  I  found  wandering  in   the   streets,  and 

she 
Was  withered  from  a  likeness  of  aught  human 
Into  a  fiend,  by  some  strange  misery  : 
Soon  as  she  heard  my  steps  she  leaped  on  me, 
And  glued  her  burning  lips  to  mine,  and  laughed 
With  a  loud,  long,  and  frantic  laugh  of  glee, 
And   cried,    "  Xow.  Mortal,  thou    hast    deeply 

quaffed 
The    Plague's    blue    kisses — soon    millions    shall 

pledge  the  draught ! 

XLIX. 

;-  My  name  is  Pestilence — this  bosom  dry 
Once  fed  two  babes — a  sister  and  a  brother — 
"When  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood  did  lie 
Of  three  death-wounds — the  flames  had  ate  the 

other  ! 
Since  then  I  have  no  longer  been  a  mother, 
But  I  am  Pestilence  ; — hither  and  thither 
I  flit  about,  that  I  may  slay  and  smother  ; — 
All  lips  which  I  have  kissed  must  surely  wither, 
But  Death's — if  thou  art  he,  we'll  go  to  work  to- 
gether ! 


211  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


L. 

"  What  seekest  thou  hero  ?  the  moonlight  come 

in  Hashes, — 
The  dew  is  rising  (lankly  from  the  dell ; 
'Twill  moisten  her !  and  thou  shalt  see  the  gashes 
In  my  sweet  boy — now  full  of  worms — but  tell 
First  what  thou  seek'st" — "I  seek  for  food." — 

"  'Tis  well, 
Thou  shalt  have  food;  Famine,  my  paramour, 
^Yaits  for  us  at  the  feast — cruel  and  fell 
Is  Famine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his  door 
Those  whom  these  lips   have  kissed,  alone.     No 

more,  no  more  !  " 

LI. 

As  thus  she  spake,   she  grasped   me  with   the 

strength 
Of  madness,  and  by  many  a  ruined  hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse : — at  length 
We  came  to  a  lone  hut,  where  on  the  earth 
Which  made  its  floor,  she  in  her  ghastly  mirth 
Gathering  from  all  those  homes  now  desolate, 
Had  piled  three  heaps  of  loaves,  making  a  dearth 
Among  the  dead — round  which  she  set  in  state 
A  ring  of  cold,  stiff  babes ;  silent  and  stark  they 

sate. 

LII. 

She  leaped  upon  a  pile,  and  lifted  high 

Her   mad   looks   to   the    lightning,    and    cried  : 

"Eat! 
Share  the  great  feast — to-morrow  we  must  die  ! " 
And  then  she  spurned  the  loaves  with  her  pale 

feet. 
Towards   her  bloodless   guests  ; — that   sight    to 

meet. 
Mine   eyes  and  my  heart  ached,  and  but  that 

she 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  245 

Who  loved  me,  did  with  absent  looks  defeat 
Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sympathy ; 
But  now  I  took  the  food  that  woman  offered  me ; 

LILT. 

And  vainly  having  with  her  madness  striven 
If  I  might  win  her  to  return  with  me, 
Departed.     In  the  eastern  beams  of  heaven 
The  lightning  now  grew  pallid — rapidly, 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous  sea 
The  dark  steed  bore  me.  and  the  mountain  gray 
Soon  echoed  to  his  hoofs,  and  I  could  see 
Cythna  among  the  rocks,  where  she  alway 
Had  sate,  with  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  the  lingering 
day. 


And  joy  was  ours  to  meet :  she  was  most  pale, 
Famished,  and  wet  and  weary,  so  I  cast 
My  arms  around  her,  lest  her  steps  should  fail 
As  to  our  home  we  went,  and  thus  embraced, 
Her  full  heart  seemed  a  deeper  joy  to  taste 
Than  e'er  the  prosperous  know ;  the  steed  behind 
Trod  peacefully  along  the  mountain  waste  : 
We  reached  our  home  ere  morning  could  unbind 
Night's  latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal  couch  reclined. 

LV. 

Her  chilled  heart  having  cherished  in  my  bosom, 
And  sweetest  kisses  past,  we  two  did  share 
Our  peaceful  meal : — as  an  autumnal  blossom, 
Which  spreads  its  shrunk  leaves  in  the  sunny  air. 
After  cold  showers,  like  rainbows  woven  there, 
Thus  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital  spirit 
Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes,  an  atmosphere 
Of  health,  and  hope  ;    and  sorrow  languished 

near  it. 
And  fear,   and  all   that   dark   despondence   doth 

inherit. 


246  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


CANTO  VII. 


So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 
Which  fed  upon  the  wrecks  of  night  and  storm 
Now  lingering  on  the  winds;  light  airs  did  play 
Among  the  dewy  weeds,  the  sun  was  warm, 
And  we  sate  linked  in  the  inwoven  charm 
Of  converse  and  caresses  sweet  and  deep, 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might  disarm 
Time,  though  he  wield  the  darts  of  death  and 

sleep, 
And  those  thrice  mortal  barbs  in  his  own  poison 

steep. 


I  told  her  of  my  sufferings  and  my  madness, 
And  how,  awakened  from  that  dreamy  mood 
By  Liberty's  uprise,  the  strength  of  gladness 
Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude  ; 
And  all  that  now  I  was,  while  tears  pursued 
Each  other  down  her  fair  and  listening  cheek 
Fast   as   the   thoughts   which  fed  them,  like   a 

flood 
From  sunbright  dales ;    and  when  I  ceased  to 

speak, 
Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  pausing  air  did 

wake. 

in. 

She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange  endur- 
ance, 
Like  broken  memories  of  many  a  heart 
Woven  into  one  :  to  which  no  firm  assurance, 
So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own  faith  impart. 
She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to  start 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  247 

From  the  swoln  brain,  and  that  her  thoughts 

were  firm 
When  from  all  mortal  hope  she  did  depart, 
Borne  by  those  slaves  across  the  Ocean's  term, 
And  that  she  reached  the  port  without  one  1'ear 
infirm. 

IV. 

One  was  she  among  many  there,  the  thralls 
Of  the  cold  tyrant's  cruel  lust :  and  they 
Laughed  mournfully  in  those  polluted  halls  ; 
But  she  was  calm  and  sad,  musing  alway 
On  loftiest  enterprise,  till  on  a  day 
The  tyrant  heard  her  singing  to  her  lute 
A  wild  and  sad,  and  spirit-thrilling  lay. 
Like  winds  that  die  in  wastes — one  moment  mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made,  which  did  his  breast 
pollute. 

v. 
Even  when  he  saw  her  wondrous  loveliness, 
One  moment  to  great  Nature's  sacred  power 
He  bent  and  was  no  longer  passionless ; 
But  when  he  bade  her  to  his  secret  bower 
Be  borne  a  loveless  victim,  and  she  tore 
Her  locks  in  agony,  and  her  words  of  flame 
And  mightier  looks  availed  not ;  then  he  bore 
Again  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 
A  king,  a  heartless  beast,  a  pageant  and  a  name. 

VI. 

She  told  me  what  a  loathsome  agony 

Is  that  when  selfishness  mocks  love's  delight, 

Foul  as  in  dreams  most  fearful  imagery 

To  dally  with  the  mowing  dead — that  night 

All  torture,  fear,  or  horror,  made  seem  light 

Which  the  soul  dreams  or  knows,  and  when  the 

day 
Shone  on  her  awful  frenzy,  from  the  sight 


248  THE    REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 

Where  like  a  Spirit  in  fleshly  chains  she  lay 
Struggling,  aghast  and  pale  the  tyrant  fled  away. 

VII. 

Her  madness  was  a  beam  of  light,  a  power 
AVhich  dawned  through  the  rent  soul ;  and  words 

it  gave, 
Gestures  and  looks,  such  as  in  whirlwinds  bore, 
AVhich  might  not  be  withstood,  whence  none 

could  save 
All  who  approached  their  sphere,  like  some  calm 

wave 
Vexed  into  whirlpools  by  the  chasms  beneath  ; 
And  sympathy  made  each  attendant  slave 
Fearless  and  free,  and  they  began  to  breathe 
Deep  curses,  like  the  voice  of  flames  far  underneath. 

VIII. 

The  King  felt  pale  upon  his  noonday  throne  ; 

At  night  two  slaves  he  to  her  chamber  sent, 

One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch,  grown 

From  human  shape  into  an  instrument 

Of  all  things  ill — distorted,  bowed  and  bent. 

The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 

Made  dumb  by  poison  ;   who  naught  knew  or 

meant 
But  to  obey :  from  the  fire-isles  came  he, 
A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral  sea. 


They  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swift  stroke 
Of  silent  rowers  clove  the  blue  moonlight  seas, 
Until  upon  their  path  the  morning  broke ; 
They  anchored  then,  where,  be  there  calm  or 

breeze, 
The  gloomiest  of  the  drear  Symplegades 
Shakes  with  the  sleepless  surge ; — the  iEthiop 

there 
"Wound  his  long  arms  around  her,  and  with  knees 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  249 

Like  iron  clasped  her  feet,  and  plunged  with  her 
A  mono;  the  closing;  waves  out  of  the  boundless  air. 


"  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the  plain 
Of  morning  light,  into  some  shadowy  wood, 
He  plunged  through  the  green   silence  of  the 

main, 
Thro'  many  a  cavern  which  the  eternal  flood 
Had  scooped,  as  dark  lairs  for  its  monster  brood  ; 
And  among  mighty  shapes  which  fled  in  wonder, 
And  among  mightier  shadows  which  pursued 
His  heels,  he  wound :  until  the  dark  rocks  under 
He  touched  a  golden  chain — a  sound  arose  like 

thunder. 


"  A  stunning  clang  of  massive  bolts  redoubling 
Beneath  the  deep — a  burst  of  waters  driven 
As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging  and  bubbling : 
And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space  was  riven 
Through  which  there  shone  the  emerald  beams 

of  heaven, 
Shot  through  the  lines  of  many  waves  inwoven, 

.    Like  sunlight  through  acacia  woods  at  even, 
Through  which,  his  way  the  diver  having  cloven, 

Past  like  a  spark  sent  up  out  of  a  burning  oven. 

XII. 

'•  And  then,"  she  said,  "  he  laid  me  in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  that  chasm  of  sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which  the  wave 
Imprisoned,  boiled  and  leaped  perpetually. 
Down  which,  one  moment  resting,  he  did  flee, 
Winning  the  adverse  depth  :  that  spacious  cell 
Like  an  upaithric  temple  wide  and  high, 
Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible, 
Was  pierced  Avith  one  round  cleft  through  which 
the  sunbeams  fell. 


250  THE    BEVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


x  1 1  r . 
"  Below,  the  fountain's  brink  was  richly  paven 
With   the  deep's  wealth,  coral,  and  pearl,  and 

Band 
Like  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells  engraven 
With  mystic  Legends  by  no  mortal  hand, 
Left  there,  when,  thronging  to  the  moon's  com- 
mand, 
The  gathering  waves  rent  the  Hesperian  gate 
Of  mountains,  and  on  such  bright  floor  did  stand 
Columns,  and  shapes  like  statues,  and  the  state 
Of  kingless  thrones,  which  Earth  did  in  her  heart 
create. 

XIV. 

"  The  fiend  of  madness  which  had  made  its  prey 
Of  my  poor  heart,  was  lulled  to  sleep  awhile  : 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day, 
And  a  sea-eagle  brought  me  food  the  while, 
Whose  nest  was  built  in  that  untrodden  isle, 
And  who,  to  be  the  jailer,  had  been  taught, 
Of  that   strange  dungeon  ;    as  a  friend  whose 

smile 
Like  light  and  rest  at  morn  and  even  is  sought, 
That  wild  bird  was  to   me,  till   madness  misery 

brought. 

xv. 

"  The  misery  of  a  madness  slow  and  creeping, 
Which  made  the  earth  seem  fire,  the  sea  seem 

air, 
And  the  white  clouds  of  noon  which  oft  were 

sleeping 
In  the  blue  heaven  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hovering  there  ; 
And  the  sea-eagle  looked  a  fiend  who  bore 
Thy  mangled  limbs  for  food  ! — Thus  all  things 

were 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  251 

Transformed  into  the  agony  which  I  wore, 
Even  as  a  poisoned  robe  around  my  bosom's  core. 


The  eagle  and  the  fountain  and  the  air ; 
Another  frenzy  came — there  seemed  a  being 
Within  me — a  strange  load  my  heart  did  bear, 
As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its  lair 
Even  in  the  fountains  of  my  life  : — a  long 
And  wondrous  vision  wrought  from  my  despair, 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim  visionary  woes,  an  unreposing  throng. 

XVII. 

"  Methought  I  was  about  to  be  a  mother — 
Month  after  month  went  by,  and  still  I  dreamed 
That  we  should  soon  be  all  to  one  another, 
I  and  my  child ;  and  still  new  pulses  seemed 
To  beat  beside  my  heart,  and  still  I  deemed 
There  was  a  babe  within — and  when  the  rain 
Of  winter  through  the  rifted  cavern  streamed, 
Methought,  after  a  lapse  of  lingering  pain, 
I  saw  that  lovely  shape,  which  near  my  heart  had 
lain. 

XVIII. 

"  It  was  a  babe,  beautiful  from  its  birth, — 
It  was  like  thee,  dear  love !  its  eyes  were  thine, 
Its  brow,  its  lips,  and  so  upon  the  earth 
It  laid  its  fingers,  as  now  rest  on  mine 
Thine  own  beloved  ! — 'twas  a  dream  divine  ; 
Even  to  remember  how  it  fled,  how  swift, 
How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart  repine, — 
Though  'twas  a  dream." — Then   Cvthna  did 

uplift 
Her  looks  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt  she  sought  to 

shift : 


K    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


x  r  x . 
A  doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  tenderness 
Of  questioning  uricf.  a  source  of  thronging  tears; 
Which,  having  past,  as  one  whom  sobs  oppress, 
She  spoke  :  ••  xes,  in  the  wilderness  of  years 
Her  memory,  aye,  like  a  green  home  appears. 
She  sucked   her  fill  even  at  this  breast,  sweet 

love, 
For  many  months  I  had  no  mortal  fears  ; 
Methought  1  felt  her  lips  and  breath  approve, — 
It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom  clove. 

XX. 

'•  I  watched  the  dawn  of  her  first  smiles,  and  soon 
When  zenith-stars  were  trembling  on  the  wave, 
Or  when  the  beams  of  the  invisible  moon, 
Or  sun,  from  many  a  prism  within  the  cave 
Their  gem-born  shadows  to  the  water  gave. 
Her  looks  would  hunt  them,  and  with  outspread 

hand. 
From  the  swift  lights  which  might  that  fountain 

pave, 
She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh,  when  that  com- 
mand 
Slighting,  it  lingered  there,  and  could  not  under- 
stand. 

XXI. 

"  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk  with  me  ; 
And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something  sweet 
Her  lips  would  frame. — so  sweet  it  could  not  be 
That  it  was  meaningless ;  her  touch  would  meet 
Mine,  and  our  pulses  calmly  flow  and  beat 
In  response  while  we  slept:  and  on  a  day 
When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange  retreat. 
With  heaps  of  golden  shells  Ave  two  did  play, — 
Both  infants,  weaving  wings  for  time's  perpetual 
way. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  253 


XXII. 

"  Ere  night,  methought,  her  waning  eyes  were 

grown 
Weary  with  joy,  and  tired  with  our  delight, 
We,  on  the  earth,  like  sister  twins  lay  down 
On  one  fair  mother's  bosom  : — frOm  that  night 
She  fled ; — like  those  illusions  clear  and  bright, 
Which  dwell  in  lakes,  when  the  red  moon  on  high 
Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest ; — and  her  flight, 
Though  'twas  the  death  of  brainless  phantasy, 
Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than  all  miser}'. 


"  It  seemed  that  in  the  dreary  night,  the  diver 
Who  brought  me  thither,  came  again,  and  bore 
My  child  away.     I  saw  the  waters  quiver, 
When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once  before  : 
Then  morning  came — it  shone  even  as  of  yore, 
But  I  was  changed — the  very  life  was  gone 
Out  of  my  heart — I  wasted  more  and  more, 
Day  after  day,  and  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual 
moan. 

XXIV. 

"  I  was  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  methought 

My  breasts  were  swoln  and  changed : — in  every 

vein 
The   blood  stood  still  one  moment,  while  that 

thought 
Was  passing — with  a  gush  of  sickening  pain 
It  ebbed  even  to  its  withered  springs  again : 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stern  resolve  I  turned 
From  that  most  strange  delusion,  which  would 

fain 
Have   waked   the   dream   for   which   my  spirit  . 

yearned 
With  more  than  human  love, — then  left  it  unre- 

turned. 


LT)1  THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


XXV. 

•■  So  ii<i\v  my  reason  was  restored  to  me, 

I  struggled  with  that  dream,  whieh,  like  a  beast 

Mosl  fierce  and  beauteous,  in  my  memory 

Bad  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heart  did  feast; 

But  all  that  •ave  and  all  its  shapes  possest 

By  thoughts  whieh  could  not  fade,  renewed  each 

one 
Some  smile,  some  look,  some  gesture  which  had 

blest 
Me  heretofore  :  I  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual 

moan. 

XXVI. 

"  Time   past,   I  know   not   whether  months  or 

years  ; 
For  day,  nor  night,  nor  change  of  seasons  made 
Its  note,  but  thoughts  and  unavailing  tears : 
And  I  became  at  last  even  as  a  shade, 
A   smoke,  a   cloud   on  which   the  winds    have 

preyed. 
Till  it  be  thin  as  air ;  until,  one  even, 
A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  played, 
Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath  of  heaven 
Descended  not,  among  the  waves  and  whirlpools 

driven. 

XXVII. 

"  And  when  the  Eagle  came,  that  lovely  thing, 
Oaring  with  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat, 
Fled  near  me  as  for  shelter  ;  on  slow  wTing, 
The  Eagle,  hovering  o'er  Ins  prey,  did  float; 
But  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear  did  note 
His  purpose,  proffering  my  own  food  to  him. 
The  eager  plumes  subsided  on  his  throat — 
He  came  where  that  bright  child  of  sea  did  swim, 
And  o'er  it  cast  in  peace  his  shadow  broad  and  dim. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  255 


XXVIII. 

"  This  wakened  me,  it  gave  me  human  strength  ; 
And  hope,  I  know  not  whence  or  wherefore, 

rose, 
But  I  resumed  my  ancient  powers  at  length  ; 
My  spirit  felt  again  like  one  of  those. 
Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make  the  woes 
Of  humankind  their  prey — what  was  this  cave  ? 
Its  deep  foundation  no  firm  purpose  knows 
Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save. 
Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all-devouring 

grave. 

XXIX. 

u  And  where  was  Laon  ?    might  my  heart  be 

dead, 
While  that  far  dearer  heart  could  move  and  be  ? 
Or  whilst  over  the  earth  the  pall  was  spread, 
Which  I  had  sworn  to  rend  ?     I  might  be  free, 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird  to  me, 
To  bring  me  ropes  ;  and  long  in  vain  I  sought 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 
Of  objects,  if  such  aid  he  could  be  taught ; 
But  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  boughs,  yet  never  ropes 

he  brought. 

XXX. 

'•  We  live  in  our  own  world,  and  mine  was  made 
From  glorious  phantasies  of  hope  departed  : 
Aye,  we  are  darkened  with  their  floating  shade, 
Or  cast  a  lustre  on  them — time  imparted 
Such  power  to  me,  I  became  fearless-hearted  ; 
My   eye   and   voice    grew  firm,   calm   was   my 

mind, 
And  piercing,  like  the  morn,  now  it  has  darted 
Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things,  behind 
Yon  dim  and  fading  clouds,  which  load  the  weary 

wind. 


256  III!,    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXXI. 

"  My  mind  became  the  book  through  which  I 

grew 
Wise  in  all  human  wisdom,  and  its  cave. 
Which  like  a  mine  I  rifled  through  and  through, 
To  me  the  keeping  of  its  secrets  gave — 
Our  mind,  the  type  of*  all,  the  moveless  wave 
Whose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things  that  are, 
Necessity,  and  love,  and  life,  the  grave, 
And  sympathy,  fountains  of  hope  and  fear; 
Justice,  and  truth,  and  time,  and  the  world's  natural 

sphere. 

XXXII. 

"  And  on  the  sand  would  I  make  signs  to  range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of  my  thought ; 
Clear  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest  change 
A  subtler  language  within  language  wrought : 
Ti»e    key   of   truths   which   once   were   dimly 

taught 
In  old  Crotona; — and  sweet  melodies 
( >f  love,  in  that  lone  solitude  I  caught 
From  mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when  thy  dear 

eyes 
Shone  through  my  sleep,  and  did  that  utterance 

harmonize. 

XXXIII. 

"  Thy  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled  at  will, 
As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 
Of  crystal  youth;  and  thou  wert  there  to  fill 
My  heart  with  joy,  and  there  we  sate  again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmering  main. 
Happy  as  then  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled  on  the  flowery  grave  in  which  were  lain 
Fear,    Faith,   and    Slavery;    and    mankind    was 
free, 
Equal,  and  pure,  and  wise,  in  wisdom's  prophecy. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  257 


XXXIV. 

M  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as  slaves 

To  do  their  sweet  and  subtle  ministries ; 

And    oft   from   that   bright    fountain's    shadowy 

waves 
They  would   make  human  throngs  gather  and 

rise 
To  combat  with  my  overflowing  eyes, 
And  voice  make  deep  with  passion — thus  I  grew 
Familiar  with  the  shock  and  the  surprise 
And  war  of  earthly  minds,  from  which  I  drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame  their 

thoughts  anew. 

XXXV. 

"  And  thus  my  prison  was  the  populous  earth — 
Where  I  saw — even  as  misery  dreams  of  morn 
Before  the  east  has  given  its  glory  birth — 
Religion's  pomp  made  desolate  by  the  scorn 
Of  Wisdom's  faintest  smile,  and  thrones  uptorn, 
And  dwellings  of  mild  people  interspersed 
With  undivided  fields  of  ripening  corn, 
And  love  made  free, — a  hope  which  we  have 

nurst 
Even   with  our  blood  and  tears, — until  its  glory 

burst. 


"  All  is  not  lost !     There  is  some  recompense 
For  hope,  whose  fountain  can  be  thus  profound, 
Even  throned  Evil's  splendid  impotence, 
Girt  by  its  hell  of  power,  the  secret  sound 
Of  hymns  to  truth   and   freedom, — the    dread 

bound 
Of  life  and  death  passed  fearlessly  and  well, 
Dungeons  wherein  the  high  resolve  is  found. 
Racks  which  degraded  woman's  greatness  tell, 
And  what  may  else  be  good  and  irresistible. 
vol.  i.  17 


258  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


xxxvr  r. 
"  Such  are  the  thoughts  which,  like  the  fires  that 

flare 
In  storm-encompassed  isles,  we  cherish  yet 
In  this  dark  ruin — such  were  mine  even  there  ; 
As  iu  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet, 
While  yet  its  leaves  with  nightly  dews  are  wet, 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's  uprise, 
Or,  as  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has  met 
Spring's  messengers  descending  from  the  skies. 
The  buds  foreknow  their  life — this  hope  must  ever 

rise. 


"  So  years  had  past,  when  sudden  earthquake 

rent 
The  depth  of  ocean,  and  the  cavern  erackt 
With  sound,  as  if  the  world's  wide  continent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  ruin  wrackt ; 
And  through  the  cleft  streamed  in  one  cataract 
The  stifling  waters  : — when  I  woke,  the  flood, 
Whose   banded   waves   that   crystal   cave    had 

sacked, 
Was  ebbing  round  me,  and  my  bright  abode 
Before  me  yawned — a  chasm  desert,  and  bare,  and 

broad. 


"  Above  me  was  the  sky,  beneath  the  sea : 
I  stood  upon  a  point  of  shattered  stone, 
And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tumultuously 
With  splash  and  shock  into  the  deep — anon 
All  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  wide  and  lone. 
I  felt  that  I  was  free  !     The  Ocean-spray 
Quivered  beneath  my  feet,  the  broad    heaven 

shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  winds  did  play, 
Lingering  as  they  pursued  their  unimpeded  way. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  250 


XL. 

"  My  spirit  moved  upon  the  sea  like  wind 
Which   round   some  thymy  cape  will  lag  and 

hover, 
Though  it  can  wake  the  still  cloud,  and  unbind 
The  strength  of  tempest :  day  was  almost  over, 
When  through  the  fading  light  I  could  discover 
A  ship  approaching — its  white  sails  were  fed 
With   the   north   wind — its   moving   shade    did 

cover 
The  twilight  deep  ; — the  mariners  in  dread 
Cast  anchor  when  they  saw  new  rocks  around  them 

spread. 

XLI. 

"  And  when  they  saw  one  sitting  on  a  crag, 
They  sent  a  boat  to  me  ; — the  sailors  rowed 
In  awe  through  many  a  new  and  fearful  jag 
Of  overhanging  rock,  through  which  there  flowed 
The  foam  of  streams  that  cannot  make  abode. 
They  came  and  questioned  me,  but,  when  they 

heard 
My  voice,  they  became  silent,  and  they  stood 
And   moved   as   men   in  whom  new  love   had 

stirred 
Deep  thoughts :  so  to  the  ship  we  past  without  a 

word. 


CANTO   VIII. 

i. 
"  I  sate  beside  the  steersman  then,  and,  gazing 
Upon  the  west,  cried,  '  Spread  the  sails  !  behold  ! 
The  sinking  moon  is  like  a  watch-tower  blazing 
Over  the  mountains  yet ; — the  City  of  Gold 
Yon  Cape  alone  does  from  the  sight  withhold ; 


|60  THE    BEVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 

The  stream  is  fleet — the  north  breathes  steadily 
Beneath  the  stars:  they  tremble  with  the  cold  ! 
Vc  cannot  reel  upon  the  dreary  n-a; — 
I  Lute,  baste  to  the  warm  home  of  happier  destiny  ! ! 


"  The  Manners  obeyed — the  Captain  stood 

Aloof,  and,  whispering  to  the  Pilot,  said 

•  Alas,  alas  !   I  tear  we  are  pursued 

By  wicked  ghosts:  a  Phantom  of  the  Dead, 

The  night  before  we  sailed,  came  to  my  bed 

In  dream,  like  that ! '     The  Pilot  then  replied, 

4  It  cannot  be — she  is  a  human  Maid — 

Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep — she  is  some 

bride, 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth — she  can  be    naught 

beside.' 

in. 
.  "  We  past  the  islets,  borne  by  wind  and  stream, 
And  as  we  sailed,  the  Mariners  came  near 
And  thronged  around  to  listen  ; — in  the  gleam 
Of  the  pale  moon  I  stood,  as  one  whom  fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice  did  rear : 
1  Ye  are  all  human — yon  broad  moon  gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  self-same  likeness  wear. 
Even  while  I  speak — beneath  this  very  night, 
Their  thoughts  flow  on   like  ours,  in  sadness  or 
delight. 

IV. 

" '  What  dream  ye  ?     Your  own    hands    have 

built  a  home, 
Even  for  yourselves  on  a  beloved  shore  : 
For  some,  fond  eyes  are  pining  till  they  come, 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 
And  laughing  babes  rush  from  the  well-known 

door ! 
Is  this  your  care  ?  ye  toil  for  your  own  good — - 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  261 

Ye  feel  and  think — has  some  immortal  power 
Such  purposes  ?  or  in  a  human  mood, 
Dream  ve  some  Power  thus  builds  for  man  in  soli- 
tude ? 

v. 

"  '  What  is  that  Power  ?     Ye  mock  yourselves, 

and  give 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  cannot  know  : 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and  live  ! 
'Twere  as  if  man's  own  works  should  feel,  and 

show 
The  hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts,  from  which 

they  flow, 
And  he  be  like  to  them.     Lo  !  Plague  is  free 
To  waste,  Blight,  Poison,  Earthquake,  Hail,  and 

Snow, 
Disease,  and  Want,  and  worse  Necessity 
Of  hate  and  ill,  and  Pride,  and  Fear,  and  Tyranny. 

VI. 

"  '  What   is   that   Power  ?      Some   moon-struck 

sophist  stood 
Watching  the  shade  from  his  own  soul  upthrown 
Fill  Heaven  and  darken    Earth,  and   in   such 

mood 
The  Form  he  saw  and  worshipped  was  his  own, 
His  likeness  in  the  world's  vast  mirror  shown  ; 
And  'twere  an  innocent  dream,  but  that  a  faith 
Nursed  by  fear's  dew  of  poison,  grows  thereon, 
And  that  men  say,  that  Power  has  chosen  Death 
On    all   who   scorn   its   laws,   to   wreak   immortal 

wrath. 

VII. 

" '  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have  heard  and 

seen, 
Or  known  from  others  who  have  known  such 

things, 


2G2  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

A  Shade,  a  Form,  which  Earth  and  Heaven  be- 
tween 

Wields  an  invisible  rod— that  Priests  and  Kings, 
Custom,  domestic  sway,  ay,  all  that  brings 
Man'-    tree-born    soul   beneath    the    oppressor's 

heel, 

Are  his  strong  ministers,  and  that  the  stings 
Of  death  will  make  the  wise  his  vengeance  feel, 
Though   truth   and  virtue    arm   their  hearts  with 
tenfold  steel. 


" '  And  it  is  said,  this  Power  will  punish  wrong ; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain  to  pain  ! 
And  deepest  hell,  and  deathless  snakes  among, 
Will  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  is  fixed  a  stain, 
Which,  like  a  plague,  a  burthen,  and  a  bane, 
Clung  to  him  while  he  lived ; — for  love  and  hate, 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say  are  difference  vain — 
The  will  of  strength  is  right — this  human  state 
Tyrants,  that  they  may  rule,  with  lies  thus  desolate. 

IX. 

"  '  Alas,  wdiat  strength  ?     Opinion  is  more  frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on  the  moon 
Even  while  we  gaze,  though  it  awhile  avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth — and  every  throne 
Of  Earth   or    Heaven,   though   shadow   rests 

thereon, 
One  shape  of  many  names : — for  this  ye  plough 
The  barren  waves  of  ocean  ;  hence  each  one 
Is  slave  or  tyrant;  all  betray  and  bow. 
Command,  or  kill,  or  fear,  or  wreak,  or  suffer  woe. 


"  '  Its  names  are  each  a  sign  which  maketh  holy 
All  power — ay,  the  ghost,  the  dream,  the  shade, 
Of  power — lust,  falsehood,  hate,  and  mide,  and 
folly  ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  263 

The   pattern   whence   all   fraud   and   wrong  is 

made, 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been  betrayed ; 
And  human  love  is  as  the  name  well  known 
Of  a  dear  mother,  whom  the  murderer  laid 
In  bloody  grave,  and,  into  darkness  thrown, 
Gathered  her  wildered  babes  around  him  as  his 


"  '  O  love  !  who  to  the  hearts  of  wandering  men 
Art  as  the  calm  to  Ocean's  weary  waves  ! 
Justice,  or  truth,  or  joy  !  thou  only  can 
From  slavery  and  religion's  labyrinth  caves 
Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  seaman  saves. 
To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good, 
To  track  the  steps  of  freedom,  though  through 

graves 
She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patient  mood, 
To  weep  for  crime,  though  stained  with  thy  friend's 

dearest  blood. 

XII. 

"  '  To  feel  the  peace  of  self-contentment's  lot, 
To  own  all  sympathies,  and  outrage  none, 
And,  in  the  inmost  bowers  of  sense  and  thought, 
Until  life's  sunny  day  is  quite  gone  down, 
To  sit  and  smile  with  Joy,  or,  not  alone, 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek  of  Woe ; 
To  live,  as  if  to  love  and  live  were  one, — 
This  is  not  faith  or  law,  nor  those  who  bow 
To  thrones  on  Heaven  or  Earth,  such  destiny  may 
know. 

XIII. 

"  '  But  children  near  their  parents  tremble  now, 
Because  they  must  obey — one  rules  another, 
And  as  one  Power  rules  both  high  and  low, 
So  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his  brother, 


'Jill  Mil      REV0L1     01      ISLAM. 

And    Bate   is  throned  on   high  with   Fear  her 

mother, 
Above  the  Highest— and  those  fountain-fell-. 
Whence  love  yet  flowed  when  faith  had  choked 

all  oilier,  ^ 

Are    darkened — Woman,    as   the    bond-slave, 
dwells 
Of  man.  a  slave  ;  and  life  is  poisoned  in  its  wells. 

XIV. 

" '  Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines,  that  he  may 

weave 
A  lasting  chain  for  his  own  slavery ; — 
In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may  live 
He  toils  for  others,  who  must  ever  be 
The  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity  ; 
He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in  ruin  ; 
He  builds  the  altar,  that  its  idol's  fee 
May  be  his  very  blood;  he  is  pursuing, 
O,  blind   and   willing   wretch !    his    own   obscure 

undoing. 

xv. 

"  '  Woman  ! — she  is  his  slave,  she  has  become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak — the  child  of  scorn, 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home. 
Falsehood,  and  fear,  and  toil,  like  waves  have 

worn 
Channels  upon  her  cheek,  which  smiles  adorn, 
A-  calm  decks  the  false  Ocean  : — well  ye  know 
What  Woman  is,  for  none  of  Woman  born 
Can  choose  but  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of  Avoe 
Which  ever  from  the  oppressed  to  the  oppressors 

flow. 

XVI. 

"  '  This  need  not  be  ;  ye  might  arise,  and  will 
That   gold  should   lose    its  power,  and  thrones 
their  glory ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  265 

That  love,  which  none  may  bind,  be  free  to  fill 
The  world,  like   light ;    and   evil   faith,  grown 

hoary 
With  crime,  be  quenched  and  die. — Yon  prom- 
ontory 
Even  now  eclipses  the  descending  moon  ! — 
Dungeons  and  palaces  are  transitory — 
High  temples  fade  like  vapour — Man  alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  power  when  all  beside  is 
gone. 


"  '  Let  all  be  free  and  equal ! — From  your  hearts 
I  feel  an  echo ;  through  my  inmost  frame 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  mate,  it  darts — 
Whence  come  ye.  friends  ?    Alas.  I  cannot  name 
All  that  I  read  of  sorrow,  toil,  and  shame, 
On  your  worn  faces ;  as  in  legends  old 
Which  make  immortal  the  disastrous  fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and  bold, 
The  discord  of  your  hearts  I  in  your  looks  behold. 

XVIII. 

"  •  Whence    come  '  ye,   friends  ?    from    pouring 

human  blood 
Forth  on  the  earth  ?  or  bring  ye  steel  and  gold, 
That  Kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  multitude  ? 
Or  from  the  famished  poor,  pale,  weak,  and  cold, 
Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil '?    unfold  ! 
Speak  !   are  your  hands  in  slaughter's  sanguine 

hue 
Stain'd  freshly  ?  have  your  hearts  in  guile  grown 

old  ? 
Know  yourselves  thus  ?  ye  shall  be  pure  as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto  you. 

XIX. 

"  '  Disguise  it  not — we  have  one  human  heart — 
All  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  common  home : 


2P.6  nil.    REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 

BluBi  not  tor  wli;it  may  to  thyself  impart 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime:  the  doom 
I-  this,  which  has,  or  may,  or  must,  become 
Thine,  and  all  humankinds.     Ye  are  the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  for  the  devouring  tomb, 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts  and  they,  and  all  the  toil 
Wherewith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's  perpetual  coil. 

XX. 

"  '  Disguise  it  not — ye  blush  for  what  ye  hate, 
And  Enmity  is  sister  unto  Shame ; 
Look  on  your  mind — it  is  the  book  of  fate — 
Ah  !  it  is  dark  with  many  a  blazoned  name 
Of  misery — all  are  mirrors  of  the  same  ; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  with  his  iron  pen, 
Dipped  in  scorn's  fiery  poison,  makes  his  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads  of  men 
Pass  harmless,  if  they  scorned  to  make  their  hearts 
his  den. 

XXI. 

"  '  Yes,  it  is  Hate,  that  shapeless  fiendly  thing 
Of  many  names,  all  evil,  some  divine, 
Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mortal  sting ; 
Which,  when  the  heart  its  snaky  folds  entwine, 
Is  wasted  quite,  and  when  it  doth  repine 
To  goi-ge  such  bitter  prey,  on  all  beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as  with  its  twine 
When  Amphisbsena  some  fair  bird  has  tied, 
Soon  o'er  the  putrid  mass  he  threats  on  every  side. 

XXII. 

"  •  Reproach  not  thine  own  soul,  but  know  thyself, 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  loathe  thine  own. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self, 
Which,  when  our  thoughts  and  actions  once  are 

gone, 
Demands  that  man  should  weep,  and  bleed,  and 

groan ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  267 

O  vacant  expiation  !  be  at  rest. — 
The  past  is  Death's,  the  future  is  thine  own ; 
And  love  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest  breast 
A  paradise  of  flowers,  where  peace  might  build  her 
nest.' 


"  '  Speak  thou  !    whence  come  ye  ?  ' — A  Youth 

made  reply, 
'  "Wearily,  wearily  o'er  the  boundless  deep 
We  sail ; — thou  readest  well  the  misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much  doth  sleep 
Within,  which  there  the  poor  heart  loves  to  keep, 
Or  dare  not  write  on  the  dishonoured  brow ; 
Even  from  our  childhood  have  we  learned  to  steep 
The  bread  of  slavery  in  the  tears  of  woe, 
And  never  dreamed  of  hope  or  refuge  until  now. 

XXIV. 

"  '  Yes — I  must  speak — my  secret  would  have 

perished 
Even  with  the  heart  it  wasted,  as  a  brand 
Fades  in  the  dying  name  whose  life  it  cherished, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  withstand 
Thee,  wondrous  Lady,  and  the  mild  command 
Of  thy  keen  eyes : — yes,  we  are  wretched  slaves, 
"Who  from  their  wonted  loves  and  native  land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing  waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy  graves. 

XXV. 

" '  We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales  the  fairest 
Among  the  daughters  of  those  mountains  lone, 
We  drag  them  there,  where  all  things  best  and 

rarest 
Are  stained  and  trampled : — years  have  come 

and  gone 
Since,  like  the   ship  which  bears   me,  I   have 

known 


268  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

No  thought ;— l>ut  now  the  eyea  of  one  dear  .Maid 
On  mine  with  lighl  of  mutual  love  have  shone — 
She  is  my  life, — I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her, — a  smoke  sent  up  from  ashes,  soon  to  fade. 


" '  For  she  must  perish  in  the  tyrant's  hall — 
Alas,  alas!' — He  ceased,  and  by  the  sail 
Sate  cowering — but  his  sobs  were  heard  by  all, 
And  still  before  the  ocean  and  the  gale 
The  ship  tied  fast  till  the  stars  'gan  to  fail. 
All  round  me  gathered  with  mute  countenance, 
The  Seamen  gazed,  the  Pilot,  worn  and  pale 
With  toil,  the  Captain  with  gray  locks,  whose 
glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe — they  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

XXVII. 

"  '  Recede  not !  pause  not  noAv  !  thou  art  jjrown 

old, 
But  Hope  will  make  thee  young,  for  Hope  and 

Youth 
Are  children  of  one  mother,  even  Love — behold ! 
The  eternal  stars  gaze  on  us ! — is  the  truth 
Within  your  soul  ?  care  for  your  own,  or  ruth 
For  other's  sufferings  ?  do  ye  thirst  to  bear 
A  heart  which  not  the  serpent  custom's  tooth 
May  violate  ? — Be  free  !  and  even  here, 
Swear  to  be  firm  till  death!'     They  cried,  'We 

swear  !  we  swear  ! ' 

XXVIII. 

"  The  very  darkness  shook,  as  with  a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder  at  the  cry  ; 
The  hollow  shore  its  thousand  echoes  cast 
Into  the  night,  as  it'  the  sea.  and  sky, 
And  earth,  rejoiced  with  new-born  libertv, 
For   in    that    name    they    swore !      Bolts   were 
undrawn, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  269 

And  on  the  deck,  with  unaccustomed  eye 
The  captives  gazing  stood,  and  every  one 
Shrank  as  the  inconstant  torch  upon  her  counte- 
nance shone. 

XXIX. 

"  They  were  earth's  purest  children,  young  and 

fair, 
With  eyes  the  shrines  of  unawakened  thought, 
And  brows  as  bright  as  spring  or  morning,  ere 
Dark  time  had  there  its  evil  legend  wrought 
In  characters  of  cloud  which  wither  not. — 
The  change  was  like  a  dream  to  them ;  but  soon 
They  knew  the  glory  of  their  altered  lot, 
In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breathless  noon, 
Sweet  talk,  and  smiles,  and  sighs,  all  bosoms  did 
attune. 

xxx. 

"  But  one  was  mute,  her  cheeks  and  lips  most 

fair, 
Changing  their  hue  like  lilies  newly  blown, 
Beneath  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair, 
Waved  by  the  wind  amid  the  sunny  noon, 
Showed  that  her  soul  was  quivering ;  and  full 

soon 

That  Youth  arose,  and  breathlessly  did'  look 

On  her  and  me,  as  for  some  speechless  boon  : 

I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine  I  took, 

And  felt  a  soft  delight  from  what  their  spirits  shook. 


CANTO  IX. 

i. 
'•  That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody  bay. 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared  to  hover 
Than,  when  all  doubt  and  fear  has  passed  away, 


270  THE    REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 

It  shades  the  couch  of  some  unresting  lover, 
Whose  heart  is  now  at  rest:    thus    night   past 

over 
Fu  mutual  joy: — around,  a  forest  grew 
( >!'  poplars  and  dark  oaks,  whose  shade  did  cover 
The  waning  stars,  prankt  in  the  waters  blue, 
And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from  the  morning 

flew. 


"  The  joyous  mariners,  and  each  free  maiden, 
Now  brought  from  the  deep  forest  many  a  bough, 
With  woodland  spoil  most  innocently  laden  ; 
Soon  wreaths  of  budding  foliage  seemed  to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails,  the  stern  and  prow 
Were  canopied  with  blooming  boughs, — the  while 
On  the  slant  sun's  path  o'er  the  waves  we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle 
Doomed  to  pursue  those  waves  that  cannot  cease  to 
smile. 


"  The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark  blue  deep 
With  snowy  sails,  fled  fast  as  ours  came  nigh, 
In  fear  and  wonder ;  and  on  every  steep 
Thousands  did  gaze,  they  heard  the  startling  cry, 
Like  earth's  own  voice  lifted  unconquerably 
To  all  her  children,  the  unbounded  mirth, 
The  glorious  joy  of  thy  name — Liberty ! 
They   heard ! — As   o'er   the    mountains    of  the 

earth 
From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams  of  morning's 

birth : 

IV. 

"  So  from  that  cry  over  the  boundless  hills 
Sudden  was  caught  one  universal  sound, 
Like  a  volcano's  voice,  whose  thunder  fills 
Remotest  skies, — such  glorious  madness  found 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  271 

A  path  through  human  hearts  with  stream  which 

drowned 
Its   struggling   fears    and   cares,    dark   custom's 

brood ; 
They  knew  not  whence  it  came,  but  felt  around 
A  wide  contagion  poured — they  called  aloud 
On  Liberty — that  name  lived  on  the  sunny  flood. 


••  We  reached  the  port — alas  !  from  many  spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that  cry,  was  fled, 
Like  the  brief  glory  which  dark  heaven  inherits 
From  the  false  dawn,  which  fades  ere  it  is  spread, 
Upon  the  night's  devouring  darkness  shed : 
Yet   soon   bright   day  will  burst — even   like   a 

chasm 
Of  fire,  to  burn  the  shrouds  outworn  and  dead, 
Which  wrap  the  world ;  a  wide  enthusiasm, 
To  cleanse  the  fevered  world  as  with  an  earth- 
quake's spasm  ! 

VI. 

"  I  walked  through  the  great  City  then,  but  free 
From  shame  or  fear ;  those  toil-worn  Mariners 
And  happy  Maidens  did  encompass  me  ; 
And  like  a  subterranean  wind  that  stirs 
Some  forest  among  caves,  the  hopes  and  fears 
From  every  human  soul,  a  murmur  strange 
Made  as  I  past ;  and  many  wept,  with  tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts  did  range, 
And  half-extinguished  words  which  prophesied  of 
change. 

VII. 

"  For,  with  strong  speech  I  tore  the  veil  that  hid 
Nature,  and  Truth,  and  Liberty,  and  Love, — 
As  one  who  from  some  mountain's  pyramid, 
Points  to  the  unrisen  sun  ! — the  shades  approve 
His  truth,  and  flee  from  every  stream  and  grove. 


L>72  THE    REVOLT   OF    is  [.AM. 

Thus,  gentle  thoughts  did  many  a  bosom  fill, — 
Wisdom  the  mail  of  tried  affections  wove 
For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scorn  of  ill 
Thrice  steeped  in  molten  steel  the  unconquerable 
will. 

VIII. 

"  Some  said  I  was  a  maniac  wild  and  lost ; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from  the  grave 
The  Prophet's  virgin  bride,  a  heavenly  ghost : — ■ 
Some  said  I  was  a  fiend  from  my  weird  cave. 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and  o'er  the  wave, 
The  forest,  and  the  mountain,  came  ; — some  said 
I  was  the  child  of  God,  sent  down  to  save 
Women  from  bonds  and  death,  and  on  my  head 
The  burthen  of  their  sins  would  frightfully  be  laid. 

IX. 

"  But  soon  my  human  words  found  sympathy 

In  human  hearts :  the  purest  and  the  best, 

As  friend  with  friend  made  common  cause  with 

me, 
And  they  were  few,  but  resolute  ; — the  rest, 
Ere  yet  success  the  enterprise  had  blest, 
Leagued  with  me  in  their  hearts ; — their  meals, 

their  slumber, 
Their  hourly  occupations,  were  possest 
By  hopes  which  I  had  armed  to  overnumber 
Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares,  which  life's  strong 

wings  encumber. 

x. 

"  But  chiefly  women,  whom  my  voice  did  waken 
From  their  cold,  careless,  willing  slavery, 
Sought  me :  ome  truth  their  dreary  prison  has 

shaken, 
They  looked  around,  and  lo  !  they  became  free  ! 
Their  many  tyrants  sitting  desolately 
In  slave-deserted  halls,  could  none  restrain ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  273 

For  wrath's  red  fire  had  withered  in  the  eye, 
Whose  lightning  once  was  death, — nor  fear,  nor 

gain 
Could  tempt  one   captive   now  to  lock  another's 

chain. 

XL 

'■  Those  who  were  sent  to  bind  me,  wept,  and  felt 
Their  minds  outsoar   the  bonds  which  clasped 

them  round, 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  wraste  and  melt 
In  the  white  furnace  ;  and  a  visioned  swound, 
A  pause  of  hope  and  awe,  the  City  bound, 
Which,  like  the  silence  of  a  tempest's  birth, 
When  in  its  awful  shadow  it  has  wound 
The  sun,  the  wiud,  the  ocean,  and  the  earth, 
Hung  terrible,  ere  yet  the  lightnings  have  leapt 

forth. 

XII 

"  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent  sky, 
By  winds  from  distant  regions  meeting  there, 
In  the  high  name  of  truth  and  liberty, 
Around  the  City  millions  gathered  were, 
By  hopes  which  sprang  from  many  a  hidden  lair  ; 
Words,  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues  of  grace 
Arrayed,  thine  own  wild  songs  which  in  the  air 
Like  homeless  odours  floated,  and  the  name 
Of  thee,  and  many  a  tongue    which   thou   hadst 
dipped  in  flame. 

XIII. 

"  The  Tyrant  knew  his   power  was  gone,  but 

Fear, 
The  nurse   of  Vengeance,  bade   him  wait  the 

event — 
That  perfidy  and  custom,  gold  and  prayer, 
And  whatsoe'er,  when  force  is  impotent, 
To  fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world  has  lent, 
vol.  i.  18 


'27  I  THE    REVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 

Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  failing  sway. 
Therefore  throughout  the  streets,  the  Priests  he 

senl 
To  curse  the  rebels. — To  their  gods  did  they 
For  Earthquake,  Plague,  and  Want,  kneel  in  the 

public  way. 


"  And  grave  and  hoary  men  were  bribed  to  tell 
From  seats  where  law  is  made  the  slave  of  wrong, 
How  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendour  fell, 
Because  her  sons  were  free, — and  that  among 
Mankind,  the  many  to  the  few  oelong, 
By  Heaven,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 
They  said,  that  age  was  truth,  and  that  the  young 
Marred  with  wild  hopes  the  peace  of  slavery, 
With  which  old  times  and  men  had  quelled  the 
vain  and  free. 


"  And  Avith  the  falsehood  of  their  poisonous  lips 

They  breathed  on  the  enduring  memory 

Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse  ; 

There  was  one  teacher,  whom  necessity 

Had   armed  with   strength  and  wrong   against 

mankind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be  ; 
That  Ave  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail  and  blind, 
And  that  the  will  of  one  Avas  peace,  and  Ave 
Should   seek   for   naught   on    earth   but   toil   and 


XVI. 

u '  For  thus  Ave  might  avoid  the  hell  hereafter.' 
So  spake  the  hypocrites,  who  cursed  and  lied  ; 
Alas,  their  sway  was  past,  and  tears  and  laughter 
Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering  the  pride 
Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared  still  abide; 
And  yet  obscene r  slaves  with  smoother  broAV, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  '1 1  0 

And  sneers  on  their  strait  lips,  thin,  blue,  and 

wide, 
Said,  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now, 
And  hence,  the  subject  world  to  woman's  will  must 
bow; 

XVII. 

"  And  gold  was  scattered  through  the  streets, 

and  wine 
Flowed  at  a  hundred  feasts  within  the  wall. 
In  vain !  The  steady  towers  in  heaven  did  shine 
As  they  were  wont,  nor  at  the  priestly  call 
Left  Plague  her  banquet  in  the  iEthiop's  hall, 
Nor  Famine  from  the  rich  man's  portal  came, 
Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on  all 
Who  throng  to  kneel  for  food :    nor  fear,  nor 
shame, 
Nor  faith,  nor  discord,  dimmed  hope's  newly  kin- 
dled flame. 

XVIH. 

"  For  gold  was  as  a  god  whose  faith  began 
To  fade,  so  that  its  worshippers  were  few, 
And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
Gives   shape,  voice,   name,  to  spectral  Terror, 

knew 
Its  downfall,  as  the  altars  lonelier  grew, 
Till  the  Priests  stood  alone  within  the  fane ; 
The  shafts  of  falsehood  unpolluting  flew, 
And  the  cold  sneers  of  calumny  were  vain 
The  union  of  the  free  with  discord's  brand  to  stain. 

XIX. 

u  The   rest  thou   knowest. — Lo  ! — we    two    are 

here — 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  wide  and  deep — 
Strange  thoughts  are  mine. — I  cannot  grieve  nor 

fear, 
Sitting  with  thee  upon  this  lonely  steep 


£76  THE    BEVOLT    OJ    ISLAM. 

J   sinili'.   though  human   love    should   make  mo 

weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  that  knows  no  sorrow, 
And  I  do  feel  a  mighty  calmness  creep 
Over  iiiv  heart,  which  can  no  longer  borrow 
[te  hues  from  chance  or  change,  dark  children  of 

to-morrow. 

XX. 

"We  know  not  what  will   come — yet,  Laon, 

dearest, 
Cythna  shall  be  the  prophetess  of  love, 
Her  lips  shall  rob  thee  of  the  grace  thou  wearest, 
To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the  shapes  which 

rove 
Within  the  homeless  future's  wintry  grove ; 
For  I  now,  sitting  thus  beside  thee,  seem 
Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to   live    and 

move, 
And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream 
Which  rolls  from  steadfast  truth,  an  unreturning 

stream. 


"  The  blasts  of  autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth, — next  come  the  snows,  and  rain, 
And   frosts,   and    storms,  which   dreary  winter 

leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train ; 
Behold !  Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal  wings ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods  she  flings, 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  lifeless 
things. 


O  Spring !  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  and 
sladness, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  277 

Wind-winged  emblem !  brightest,  best,  and  fair- 
est! 

Whence  comest  thou,  when,  with  dark  winter's 
sadness 

The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  9 

Sister  of  joy !  thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 

Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet ; 

Thy   mother    Autumn,   for   whose    grave    thou 
bearest 

Fresh    flowers,    and    beams    like    flowers,    with 
gentle  feet, 
Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  winding- 
sheet. 

XXIII. 

••  Virtue,  and  Hope,  and  Love,  like  light  and 

heaven. 
Surround    the    world. — We    are    their    chosen 

slaves. 
Has  not  the  whirlwind  of  our  spirit  driven 
Truth's    deathless   germs   to   thought's  remotest 

caves  ? 
Lo,  Winter  comes  ! — the  grief  of  many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the  sword, 
The  flood  of  tyranny,  whose  sanguine  waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith,  the  enchanter's  word, 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose  abhorred. 

XXIV. 

"  The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil :  meanwhile 
The  tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with  his  prey ; 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold  smile 
Because  they  cannot  speak ;  and.  day  by  day, 
The  moon  of  wasting  Science  wanes  away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness  vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray. 
And  gray  Priests  triumph,  and  like  blight  or 
blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is  cast. 


rr.S  THE    REVOLT   OF    [SLAM. 

XXV. 
"  This  is  the  Winter  of  the  world  ; — and  here 
We  die,  even  as  the  winds  of  Autumn  fade, 
Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air. — 
Behold  !  Spring  comes,  though  we  must  pass,  who 

made 
The  promise  of  its  birth, — even  as  the  shade 
Which  from  our  death,  as  from  a  mountain,  flings 
The  future,  a  broad  sunrise ;  thus  arrayed 
As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing  wings, 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains,  Earth  like  an  eagle 
springs. 

XXVI. 

"  O  dearest  love  !  we  shall  be  dead  and  cold 
Before  this  morn  may  on  the  world  arise  : 
Wouldst  thou  the  glory  of  its  dawn  behold  ? 
Alas !  gaze  not  on  me,  but  turn  thine  eyes 
On  thine  own  heart — it  is  a  paradise 
Which  everlasting  spring  has  made  its  own, 
And  while  drear  Winter  fills  the  naked  skies, 
Sweet  streams   of  sunny  thought,  and  flowers 

fresh  blown 
Are  there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and  odours  into 

one. 

XXVII. 

"  In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of  the  hope 
Which  made   them   great,  the   good   will   ever 

find ; 
And  though  some  envious  shade  may  interlope 
Between  the  effect  and  it,  one  comes  behind, 
Who  aye  the  future  to  the  past  will  bind — 
Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  forever 
Evil  with  evil,  good  with  good,  must  wind 
In  bands  of  union,  which  no  power  may  sever : 
They  must  bring  forth  their  kind,  and  be  divided 

never ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  279 


XXVIII. 

Ci  The  good  and  mighty  of  departed  ages 
Are  in  their  graves,  the  innocent  and  free, 
Heroes,  and  Poets,  and  prevailing  Sages, 
Who  leave  the  vesture  of  their  majesty 
To  adorn  and  clothe  this  naked  world ; — and  we 
Are  like  to  them — such  perish,  but  they  leave 
All  hope,  or  love,  or  truth,  or  liberty, 
Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could  conceive 
To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  survive. 


"  So  be  the  turf  heaped  over  our  remains 
Even  in  our  happy  youth,  and  that  strange  lot 
Whate'er  it  be,  when  in  these  mingling  veins 
The  blood  is  still,  be  ours ;  let  sense  and  thought 
Pass  from  our  being,  or  be  numbered  not 
Among  the  things  that  are ;  let  those  who  come 
Behind,  for  whom  our  steadfast  will  has  bought 
A  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom, 
Insult  with  careless  tread  our  undivided  tomb. 

XXX. 

"  Our  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  our  life  and 

love, 
Our  happiness,  and  all  that  we  have  been, 
Immortally  must  live,  and  burn,  and  move, 
When  we  shall  be  no  more ;  the  world  has  seen 
A  type  of  peace ;  and  as  some  most  serene 
And  lovely  spot  to  a  poor  maniac's  eye, 
After  long  years,  some  sweet  and  moving  scene 
Of  youthful  hope  returning  suddenly, 
Quells  his  long  madness — thus  man  shall  remember 

thee, 


"  And  calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed  on  us, 

As  worms  devour  the  dead,  and  near  the  throne 


280  THE    REVOLT    OF    isi.wr. 

And  ;n  the  altar,  mosl  accepted  thus 

Shall    sneers   and    curses    be ; — what  we    have 

done 
None    shall    dare    rouch,    though    it    be    truly 

known ; 
That  record  shall  remain,  when  they  must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion  ; 
And  fame,  in  human  hope  which  sculptured  was, 
Survive  the  perished  scrolls  of  unenduring  brass. 

XXXII. 

"  The  while  we  two,  beloved,  must  depart, 
And  Sense  and  Reason,  those  enchanters  fair, 
Whose  wand  of  power  is  hope,  would  bid  the 

heart 
That  gazed  beyond  the  wormy  grave  despair : 
These  eyes,  these  lips,  this  blood,  seems  darkly 

there 
To  fade  in  hideous  ruin  ;  no  calm  sleep 
Peopling  with  golden  dreams  the  stagnant  air, 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rotting  eyes  to  steep 
In  joy; — but   senseless   death — a  ruin   dark   and 

deep ! 

XXXIII. 

"  These  are  blind  fancies.     Reason  cannot  know 
What  sense  can  neither  feel,  nor  thought  con- 
ceive ; 
There  is  delusion  in  the  world — and  woe. 
And  fear,  and  pain — we  know  not  whence  we 

live, 
Or  why,  or  how,  or  what  mute  Power  may  give 
Their  being  to  each  plant,  and  star,  and  beast, 
Or  even  these  thoughts. — Come  near  me  !   I  do 

weave 
A  chain  I  cannot  break — I  am  possest 
With  thoughts  too  swift  and  strong  for  one  lone 
human  breast. 


THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM.  281 


XXXIV. 

"  Yes,  yes — thy  kiss  is  sweet,  thy  lips  are  warm — 
O  !  willingly,  beloved,  would  these  eyes, 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from  thy  form, 
Even  as  to  sleep  whence  we  again  arise, 
Close  their  faint  orbs  in  death.     I  fear  nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared  by  thee — 
Yes,  love,  when   wisdom   fails,    makes    Cythna 

wise  ; 
Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true,  must  be 
Dearer  than  life  and  hope,  if  unenjoyed  with  thee. 

XXXV. 

"  Alas  !  our  thoughts  flow  on  with  stream,  whose 

waters 
Return  not  to  their  fountain — Earth  and  Heaven, 
The    Ocean    and    the    Sun,    the    clouds    their 

daughters, 
Winter,  and  Spring,  and  Morn,  and  Noon,  and 

Even, 
All  that  we  are  or  know,  is  darkly  driven 
Towards  one  gulf. — Lo  ! — what  a  change  is  come 
Since  I  first  spake — but  time  shall  be  forgiven, 
Though  it  change  all  but  thee  !  "     She  ceased — 
night's  gloom 
Meanwhile  had  fallen  on  earth  from  the  sky's  sun- 
less dome. 

XXXVI. 

Though  she  had  ceased,  her  countenance,  up- 
lifted 

To  heaven,  still  spake,  with  solemn  glory  bright ; 

Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips,  whose  motions 
gifted 

The  air  they  breathed  with  love,  her  locks  un- 
dight ; 

"  Fair  star  of  life  and  love,"  I  cried,  "  my  soul's 
delight, 


282  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Why  lookesl  thou  on  the  crystalline  skie-  ? 
()  that  my  spirit  were  yon  heaven  of  night, 
Which  gazes  on  thee  with  its  thousand  eyes  I  " 
She   turned   to   me   and   smiled — that   smile   was 
Paradise ! 


CANTO   X. 


Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed, 

That  thus  with  his  proud  voice,  ere  night  was 

gone, 
He  broke  our  linked  rest  ?    or  do  indeed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature  own, 
And  thought  erect  a  universal  throne, 
Where  many  shapes  one  tribute  ever  bear  ? 
And  Earth,  their  mutual  mother,  does  she  groan 
To  see  her  sons  contend  ?    and  makes  she  bare 
Her  breast,  that  all  in  peace  its  drainless  stores 

may  share  ? 


I  have  heard  friendly  sounds  from  many  a  tongue 
Which  was  not  human — the  lone  Nightingale 
Has  answered  me  with  her  most  soothing  song, 
Out  of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate  pale 
With  grief,  and  sighed  beneath ;  from  many  a  dale 
The  Antelopes  who  flocked  for  food  have  spoken 
With  happy  sounds,  and  motions,  that  avail 
Like  man's  own  speech  ;  and  such  was  now  the 
token 
Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that  proud  neigh 
was  broken. 


Each  night,  that  mighty  steed  bore  me  abroad, 
And  I  returned  with  food  to  our  retreat, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  283 

And  dark  intelligence  ;  the  blood  which  flowed 
Over  the  fields,  had  stained  the  courser's  feet ; — 
Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew, — then  meet 
The  vulture,  and  the  wild-dog,  and  the  snake, 
The  wolf,  and  the  hyena  gray,  and  eat 
The    dead   in   horrid  truce :    their  throngs  did 

make 
Behind  the  steed,  a  chasm  like  waves  in  a  ship's 

wake. 

IV. 

For,   from   the   utmost   realms   of  earth,   came 

pouring 
The  banded  slaves  whom  every  despof  sent 
At  that   throned   traitor's   summons ;     like   the 

roaring 
Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer  circumvent 
In  the  scorched  pastures  of  the  South ;  so  bent 
The  armies  of  the  leagued -kings  around 
Their  files  of  steel  and  flame ; — the  continent 
Trembled,  as  with  a  zone  of  ruin  bound ; 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  sea  shook  with  their  navies' 

sound. 

v. 
From  every  nation  of  the  earth  they  came, 
The  multitude  of  moving  heartless  things, 
Whom  slaves  call  men  ;  obediently  they  came. 
Like  sheep  whom  from  the  fold  the  shepherd 

brings 
To  the  stall,  red  with  blood ;  their  many  kings 
Led  them,  thus  erring,  from  their  native  home  ; 
Tartar  and  Frank,  and  millions  whom  the  wings 
Of  Indian  breezes  lull,  and  many  a  band 
The  Arctic  Anarch  sent,  and  Idumea's  sand, 


Fertile  in  prodigies  and  lies  ; — so  there 
Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood  of  ill. 


281  THE    KKVOl.T    OF    ISLAM. 

The  deserl  savage  ceased  to  grasp  in  fear 
His  Asian  shield  and  bow,  when,  at  the  will 
Of  Europe^  subtler  son,  the  bolt  would  kill 
Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rock  secure; 
lint  smiles  of  wondering  joy  his  face  would  fill, 
And  savage  sympathy  :  those  slaves  impure, 
Each  one  the  other  thus  from  ill  to  ill  did  lure. 

VII. 

For  traitorously  did  that  foul  Tyrant  robe 
His  countenance  in  lies  ; — even  at  the  hour 
When  he  was  snatched  from  death,  then  o'er  the 

globe, 
With  secret  signs  from  many  a  mountain  tower, 
With  smoke  by  day,  and  fire  by  night,  the  power 
Of  kings  and  priests,  those  dark  conspirators 
He  called : — they  knew  his  cause  their  own,  and 

swore 
Like  wolves  and  serpents  to  their  mutual  wars 
Strange  truce,  with  many  a  rite  which  Earth  and 

Heaven  abhors. 

VIII. 

Myriads  had  come — millions  were  on  their  way ; 
The  Tyrant  passed,  surrounded  by  the  steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public  way, 
Choked  with  his  country's  dead ; — his  footsteps 

reel 
On  the  fresh  blood — he  smiles.    "Aye,  now  I  feel 
I  am  a  King  in  truth  !  "  he  said,  and  took 
His  royal  seat,  and  bade  the  torturing  wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and  the  hook, 
And  scorpions  !   that  his  soul  on  its  revenge  might 

look. 

IX. 

"  But  first,  go  slay  the  rebels. — Why  return 
The  victor  bands  ?  "  he  said  :  "  millions  yet  live, 
Of  whom  the  weakest  with  one  word  might  turn 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  285 

The  scales  of  victory  yet ; — let  none  survive 
But  those  within  the  walls — each  fifth  shall  give 
The  expiation  for  his  brethren  here. — 
Go  forth,  and  waste  and  kill ;  " — "  O  Icing,  forgive 
My  speech,"  a  soldier  answered  ; — "  but  we  fear 
The  spirits  of  the  night,  and  morn  is  drawing  near ; 


"  For  we  were  slaying  still  without  remorse, 
And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath  my  hand 
Defenceless  lay,  when  on  a  hell-black  horse, 
An  angel  bright  as  day,  waving  a  brand 
Which  flashed  among  the  stars,  passed." — "  Dost 

thou  stand 
Parleying   with   me,   thou  wretch  ? "    the   king 

replied ; 
"  Slaves  bind  him  to  the  wheel ;  and  of  this  band, 
Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side 
That  scared  him  thus,  may  burn  his  dearest  foe 

beside  ; 

XI. 

"  And  gold  and  glory  shall  be  his. — Go  forth  ! " 
They  rushed  into  the  plain. — Loud  was  the  roar 
Of  their  career  :  the  horsemen  shook  the  earth  ; 
The  wheeled  artillery's  speed  the  pavement  tore  ; 
The  infantry,  file  after  file,  did  pour 
Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.      Five  days 

they  slew 
Among  "the  wasted  fields  :  the  sixth  saw  gore 
Stream  through  the   city ;  on  the  seventh,  the 

dew 
Of  slaughter  became  stiff;  and  there  was  peace 

anew : 


Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages, 
Between  the  glutted  beasts  and  mangled  dead  ! 
Peace  in  the  silent  streets  !  save  when  the  cries 


286  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Of  victims,  to  their  fiery  judgment  led, 
Made   pale   their  voiceless  lips,  who  seemed  to 
dread 

Even  in  their  dearest  kindred,  lest  some  tongue 
Be  faithless  to  the  fear  yet  unbetrayed ; 
Peace  in  the  Tyrant's  palace,  where  the  throng 
Waste  the  triumphal  hours  in  festival  and  song  ! 

XIII. 

Day  after  day  the  burning  Sun  rolled  on 
Over  the  death-polluted  land  ; — it  came 
Out  of  the  east  like  fire,  and  fiercely  shone 
A  lamp  of  Autumn,  ripening  with  its  flame 
The  few  lone  ears  of  corn ; — the  sky  became 
Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud  and  blast 
Languished  and  died  ;  the  thirsting  air  did  claim 
All  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapour  past 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and  fast. 

XIV. 

First  Want,  then  Plague,  came  on  the  beasts ; 

their  food 
Failed,  and  they  drew  the  breath  of  its  decay. 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent  of  blood 
Had  lured,  or  who,  from  regions  far  away, 
Had  tracked  the  hosts  in  festival  array, 
From   their   dark   deserts ;    gaunt  and  wasting 

now 
Stalked  like  fell  shades  among  their  perished 

prey ; 
In  their  green  eyes  a  strange  disease  did  glow, 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains  severe  and 

slow. 


The  fish  were  poisoned  in  the  streams ;  the  birds 
In  the  green  woods  perished ;  the  insect  race 
Was   withered    up ;    the    scattered    tlocks    and 
herds 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  287 

Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts'  hungry  chase 
Died  moaning,  each  upon  the  other's  face 
In  helpless  agony  gazing  ;  round  the  City 
All  night,  the  lean  hyenas  their  sad  case 
Like  starving  infants  wailed — a  woful  ditty ! 
And  many  ar  mother  wept,  pierced  with  unnatural 
pity. 

XVI. 

Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high, 
The  ^Ethiopian  vultures  fluttering  fell 
From  their  long  line  of  brethren  in  the  sky, 
Startling  the  concourse  of  mankind. — Too  well 
These  signs  the  coming  mischief  did  foretell : — 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  sickening  dread 
Within  each  heart,  like  ice,  did  sink  and  dwell, 
A  voiceless  thought  of  evil,  which  did  spread 
With  the  quick  glance  of  eyes,  like  withering  light- 
nings shed. 

XVII. 

Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes,  the  frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves,  till  all  is  bare ; 
So  on  those  strange  and  congregated  hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and  the  air 
Groaned  with  the  burthen  of  a  new  despair ; 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  deadlier  daugh- 
ter 
Feeds  from  her  thousand  breasts,  though  sleeping 

there 
With  lidless  eyes,  lie  Faith,  and  Plague,  and 
Slaughter, 
A    ghastly   brood ;    conceived    of    Lethe's    sullen 
water. 

XVIII. 

There  was  no  food ;  the  corn  was  trampled  down, 
The  flocks  and  herds  had  perished ;  on  the  shore 
The  dead  and  putrid  fish  were  ever  thrown  : 


288  THE    i:i:voi. i     0]     ISLAM. 

The  deeps  were  footless,  and  the  winds  no  more 
Creaked  with  the  weight  of  birds,  but,  ae  before 
Those  winged  things  sprang  forth,  won-,  void  of 

shade ; 
The  vino  ami  orchards,  Autumn's  golden  store, 
Were   burned;   so  that  the   meanest  food  was 

weighed 
With  gold,  and  Avarice  died  before  the   god  it 

made. 


There  was  no  corn — in  the  wide  market-place 
All  loathliest  things,  even  human  flesh,  was  sold ; 
They  weighed  it  in  small  scales — and  many  a 

face 
Was  fixed  in  eager  horror  then  :  his  gold 
The  miser  brought ;  the  tender  maid  grown  bold 
Through  hunger,  bared  her  scorned  charms  in 

vain  ; 
The  mother  brought  her  eldest-born,  controlled 
By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  turned  again 
And  bade  her  infant  suck,  and  died  in  silent  pain. 

xx. 

Then  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race  of  man. 
"  0,  for  the  sheathed  steel,  so  late  which  gave 
Oblivion  to  the  dead,  when  the  streets  ran 
With  brothers'  blood !  O,  that  the  earthquake's 

grave 
Would  gape,  or  Ocean  lift  its  stifling  wave  ! " 
Vain   cries — throughout   the.   streets,  thousands 

pursued 
Each  by  his  fiery  torture,  howl  and  rave, 
Or  sit,  in  frenzy's  unimagined  mood. 
Upon  fresh  heaps  of  dead — a  ghastly  multitude. 

XXI. 

It  was  not  hunger  now,  but  thirst.     Each  well 
Was  choked  with  rotting  corpses,  and  became 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  289 

A  caldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At  sunrise.     Thither  still  the  myriads  came, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the  flame 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their  bursting 

veins ; 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  without  shame, 
Spotted  with  nameless  scars  and  lurid  blains, 
Childhood,  and  youth,  and  age,  writhing  in  savage 

pains. 

XXII. 

It  was  not  thirst,  but  madness  !     Many  saw 
Their  own  lean  image  every  where  ;  it  went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the  awe 
Of  that  dread  sight  to  self-destruction  sent 
Those  shrieking  victims  ;  some,  ere  life  was  spent, 
Sought,  with  a  horrid  sympathy,  to  shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound ;  and  others  rent 
Their  matted  hair,  and  cried  aloud,  "  We  tread 
On  fire  !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell  on  earth  has 
spread." 

XXIII. 

Sometimes  the  living  by  the  dead  were  hid. 
Near  the  great  fountain  in  the  public  square, 
Where  corpses  made  a  crumbling  pyramid 
Under  the  sun,  was  heard  one  stifled  prayer 
For  life  in  the  hot  silence  of  the  air ; 
And  strange  'twas,  amid  that  hideous  heap  to  see 
Some  shrouded  in  their  long  and  golden  hair, 
As  if  not  dead,  but  slumbering  quietly. 
Like   forms  which   sculptors  carve,  then  love  to 
agony. 


Famine  had  spared  the  palace  of  the  king  : — 
He  rioted  in  festival  the  while, 
He  and  his  guards  and  priests ;  but  Plague  did 
fling 

VOL.   I.  19 


290  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

One  slia<lo\v  upon  all.     Famine  can  smile 
On  liim  who  brings  it  Pood,  and  pass,  with  guile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like  a  courtier  gray, 
The  house-dog  of  the  throne;  but  many  a  mile 
Comes  Plague,  a  winged  wolf,  who  loathes  alway 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers  make  her 
prey. 

XXV. 

So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous  feast, 
Sheathed  in  resplendent  arms,  or  loosely  flight 
To  luxury,  ere  the  mockery  yet  had  ceased 
That  lingered  on  his  lips,  the  warrior's  might 
Was  loosened,  and  a  new  and  ghastlier  night 
In  dreams  of  frenzy  lapped  his  eyes ;  he  fell 
Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sate  upright 
Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad,  did  tell 
Strange  truths ;  a  dying  seer  of  dark  oppression's 
hell. 

XXVI. 

The   Princes   and   the    Priests  were   pale  with 

terror ; 
That  monstrous  faith  wherewith  they  ruled  man- 
kind 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bowman's  error, 
On  their  OAvn  hearts :  thev  sought  and  they  could 

find 
Xo  refuge — 'twas  the  blind  who  led  the  blind  ! 
So,  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the  high  fane, 
The  many-tongued  and  endless  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession :  each  among  the  train 
To  Ins  own  Idol  lifts  his  supplications  vain. 

XXVII. 

"  O  God ! "  they   cried,  "  we    know   our   secret 

pride 
Has   scorned   thee,  and   thy  worship,   and  thy 

name  ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  291 

Secure  in  human  power,  we  have  defied 
Thy  fearful  might ;  we  bend  in  fear  and  shame 
Before  thy  presence  ;  with  the  dust  we  claim 
Kindred.     Be  merciful,  O  King  of  Heaven ! 
Most  justly  have  we  suffered  for  thy  fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  sins  forgiven, 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worshippers  be  driven. 

XXVIII. 

"  O  King  of  Glory  !  Thou  alone  hast  power  ! 
Who  can  resist  thy  will  ?  who  can  restrain 
Thy  wrath,  when  on  the  guilty  thou  dost  shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge, — a  blistering  rain  ? 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  again  ! 
Have  we  not  stabbed  thine  enemies,  and  made 
The  Earth  an  altar,  and  the  heavens  a  fane, 
Where  thou  wert  worshipped  with  their  blood, 

and  laid 
Those  hearts  in  dust  which  would  thy  searchless 

works  have  weighed  ? 

XXIX. 

"  Well  didst  thou  loosen  on  this  impious  City 
Thine  angels  of  revenge  :  recall  them  now ; 
Thy  worshippers  abased,  here  kneel  for  pity, 
And  bind  their  souls  by  an  innnortal  vow  : 
We  swear  by  thee  !     And  to  our  oath  do  thou 
Give   sanction,   from   thine   hell   of  fiends   and 

flame, 
That  we  will  kill  with  fire  and  torments  slow, 
The  last  of  those  who  mocked  thy  holy  name, 
And  scorned  the  sacred  laws  thy  prophets  did  pro- 
claim." 

XXX. 

Thus  they  with  trembling  limbs  and  pallid  lips 
Worshipped  their  own  hearts'  image,  dim  and 

vast. 
Scared  by  the  shade  wherewith  they  would  eclipse 


292  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  light  of  other  minds; — troubled  they  past 
From  the  great  Temple.     Fiercely  still  and  fast 
The  arrows  of  the  plague  among  them  fell, 
And  they  oh  one  another  gazed  aghast, 
And  through  the  hosts  contention  wild  befell, 
\>  each  of  his  own  god  the  wondrous  works  did  tell. 

XXXI. 

And  Oromaze,  Joshua,  and  Mahomet, 

Muses,  and  Buddh,  Zerdusht,  and  Brahm,  and 

Foh, 
A  tumult  of  strange  names,  which  never  met 
Before,  as  watch- words  of  a  single  woe, 
Arose.     Each  raging  votary  'gan  to  throw 
Aloft  his  armed  hands,  and  each  did  howl 
"  Our  God  alone  is  God  !  "  and  slaughter  now 
Would  have  gone  forth,  when,  from  beneath  a 

cowl, 
A  voice  came  forth,  which  pierced  like  ice  through 

every  soul. 


'Twas  an  Iberian  Priest  from  whom  it  came, 
A  zealous  man,  who  led  the  legioned  west 
With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had  steeped  in 

flame, 
To  quell  the  unbelievers ;  a  dire  guest 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in  his  breast 
Did  hate  and  guile  lie  watchful,  intertwined, 
Twin  serpents  in  one  deep  and  winding  nest ; 
He  loathed  all  faith  beside  his  own,  and  pined 
To  wreak  his  fear  of  Heaven  in  vengeance  on  man- 
kind. 

xxxnr. 

But  more  he  loathed  and  hated  the  clear  light 
Of  wisdom  and  free  thought,  and  more  did  fear. 
Lest,  kindled  once,  its  beams  might  pierce  the 
night, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  293 

Even  where  his  Idol  stood  ;  for  far  and  near 
Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to  hear 
That  faith  and  tyranny  were  trampled  down  ; 
Many  a  pale  victim,  doomed  for  truth  to  share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see,  with  helpless  groan, 
The  priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves  to  serve 
their  own. 

XXXIV. 

He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Or  steel,  in  Europe  :  the  slow  agonies 
Of  legal  torture  mocked  his  keen  desire  : 
So  he  made  truce  with  those  who  did  despise 
The  expiation,  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred  creed 
Might  crush  for  him  those  deadlier  enemies ; 
For  fear  of  God  did  in  his  bosom  breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,  an  unreposing  need. 

XXXV. 

"  Peace !  Peace  ! "  he  cried,  "  When  we  are  dead, 

the  Day 
Of  Judgment  comes,  and  all  shall  surely  know 
"Whose  God  is  God.  each  fearfully  shall  pay 
The  errors  of  his  faith  in  endless  woe  ! 
But  there  is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance  now 
On  earth,  because  an  impious  race  had  spurned 
Him  whom  we  all  adore, — a  subtile  foe, 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was  earned, 
And  kingly  thrones,  which  rest  on  faith,  nigh  over- 
turned. 

xxxvi. 
"  Think  ye,  because  we  weep,  and  kneel,  and 

pray, 
That  God  will  lull  the  pestilence  ?     It  rose 
Even  from  beneath  his  throne,  where,  many  a 

day 
His  mercy  soothed  it  to  a  dark  repose : 


294  THE    BEV0L1    OF    IM.AM. 

It  walks  upon  the  earth  to  judge  his  foes, 

And  what  art  thou  and  I,  that  he  should  deign 
T<>  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 
The  gates  of  death,  ere  they  receive  the  twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  undefended  reign  ? 

XXXVII. 

"  Aye,  there  is  famine  in  the  gulf  of  hell, 
Its  giant  worms  of  fire  forever  yawn, — 
Their  lurid  eyes  are  on  us  !     Those  who  fell 
By  the  swift  shafts  of  pestilence  ere  dawn, 
Are  in  their  jawrs  !     They  hunger  for  uke  spawn 
Of  Satan,  their  own  brethren,  who  were  sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.     See !  see  !  they 

fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will  sleep  with  luxury  spent, 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron  fangs  have 
rent ! 

XXXVIII. 

"  Our  God  may  then  lull  Pestilence  to  sleep : — 
Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now ! 
A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs,  and  on  the  heap 
Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly  and  slow. 
When  touched  by  flame,  shall  burn,  and  melt, 

and  flow, 
A  stream  of  clinging  fire, — and  fix  on  high 
A  net  of  iron  and  spread  forth  below 
A  couch  of  snakes,  and  scorpions,  and  the  fry 
Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hellish  progeny ! 

XXXIX. 

"  Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre, 

Linked  tight  with  burning  brass,  perish  ! — then 

pray 
That,  with  this  sacrifice,  the  withering  ire 
Of  Heaven  may  be  appeased."    He  ceased,  and 

they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  far  away 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  295 

The  echoes  of  his  voice  among  them  died ; 
And  he  knelt  down  upon  the  dust,  alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechless  pride, 
Whilst  shame,  and  fear,  and  awe,  the  armies  did 
divide. 


His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst  the  portal 
Of  fabled  hell ;  and  as  he  spake,  each  one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire  immortal. 
And  Heaven  above  seemed  cloven,  where,  on  a 

throne 
Girt  round  with  storms  and  shadows,  sate  alone 
Their  King  and  Judge.     Fear  killed  in  every 

breast 
All  natural  pity  then,  a  fear  unknown 
Before,  and  with  an  inward  fire  possest, 
They  raged  like  homeless   beasts  whom   burning 

woods  invest. 

XLI. 

'Twas   morn. — At  noon  the  public  crier  went 

forth, 
Proclaiming  through  the  living  and  the  dead, 
"  The   Monarch   saith,  that   his   great   empire's 

worth 
Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head  : 
He  who  but  one  yet  living  here  can  lead, 
Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts  can  wring, 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir, — a  glorious  meed ! 
But  he  who  both  alive  can  hither  bring, 
The   Princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign   an   equal 

King." 

XLII. 

Ere  night  the  pyre  was  piled,  the  net  of  iron 
Was  spread  above,  the  fearful  couch  below ; 
It  overtopped  the  towers  that  did  environ 
That  spacious  square  ;  for  Fear  is  never  slow 


B96  I  HI.    REVOLl     OF    ISLAM. 

To  build  tin-  thrones  of  Plate,  her  mate  and  foe, 
So.  she  Bcourged  forth  the  maniac  multitude 
To  rear  this  pyramid — tottering  and  slow, 
Plague-stricken,  foodless,  like  lean  herds  pursued 
By  gad-flies,  they  have  piled  the  heath,  and  gums, 
and  wood. 

XLIII. 

Nighl  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless  gloom. 
Until  the  dawn,  those  hosts  of  many  a  nation 
Stood  round  that  pile,  as  near  one  lover's  tomb 
Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  desolation  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  expectation, 
Was  heard  on  high  the  reptiles'  hiss  and  crawl — 
It  was  so  deep,  save  when  the  devastation 
Of  the  swift  pest  with  fearful  interval, 
Marking  its  path  with  shrieks,  among  the  crowd 
would  fall. 


Morn  came. — Among  those  sleepless  multitudes, 
Madness,  and  Fear,  and  Plague,  and  Famine. 

still 
Heaped  corpse  on  corpse,  as  in  autumnal  woods 
The  frosts  of  many  a  wind  with  dead  leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  brooks.      In  silence  still 
The  pale  survivors  stood ;  ere  noon,  the  fear 
Of  hell  became  a  panic,  which  did  kill 
Like  hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers  drear. 
As  "  Hush  !  hark  !  Come  they  yet  ?   Just  Heaven  ! 
thine  hour  is  near  ! " 

XLV. 

And  Priests  rushed  through  their  ranks,  some 

counterfeiting 
The  rage  they  did  inspire,  some  mad  indeed 
With  their  own  lies.     They  said  their  god  was 

wai  ting- 
To  see  his  enemies  writhe,  and  burn,  aud  bleed, — 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  297 

And  that,  till  then,  the  snakes  of  Hell  had  need 
Of  human  souls. — Three  hundred  furnaces 
Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City,  where,  with 

speed, 
Men  Drought  their  infidel  kindred  to  appease 
God's  wrath,  and  while  they  burned,  knelt  round 

on  quivering  knees. 

XLVI. 

The  noontide  sun  was  darkened  with  that  smoke, 
The  winds  of  eve  dispersed  those  ashes  gray. 
The  madness  which  these  rites  had  lulled,  awoke 
Again  at  sunset. — Who  shall  dare  to  say 
The  deeds  which  night  and  fear  brought  forth, 

or  weigh 
In  balance  just  the  good  and  evil  there  ? 
He  might  man's  deep  and  searchless  heart  dis- 
play, 
And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  labyrinths,  where 
Hope,  near   imagined  chasms,  is  struggling  with 
despair. 


'Tis  said,  a  mother  dragged  three  children  then, 
To  those  fierce  flames  which  roast  the  eyes  in 

the  head, 
And  laughed  and  died  ;  and  that  unholy  men, 
Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel  dead, 
Looked  from  their  meal,  and  saw  an  Angel  tread 
The  visible  floor  of  heaven,  and  it  was  she  ! 
And,  on  that  night,  one  without  doubt  or  dread 
Came  to  the  fire,  and  said,  "  Stop,  I  am  he  ! 
Kill  me  ! " — They  burned  them  both  with  hellish 

mockery. 

XLVIII. 

And,  one    by  one,  that   night,  young   maidens 

came. 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of  living  stone 


•J\)S  THE    REVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 

Clothed  in  the  light  of  dreams,  and  by  the  flame 
"Which  shrank    as   overgorged,  they  laid  them 

down, 
And  sung  a  low  sweet  song,  of  which  alone 
One  word  was  heard,  and  that  was  Liberty  ; 
And   that  some  kissed  their  marble  feet,  with 

moan 
Like  love,  and  died,  and  then  that  they  did  die 
With  happy  smiles,  which  sunk  in  white  tranquillity 


CANTO    XI. 


She  saw  me  not — she  heard  me  not — alone 
Upon  the  mountain's  dizzy  brink  she  stood ; 
She  spake  not,  breathed  not,  moved  not — there 

was  thrown 
Over  her  look,  the  shadow  of  a  mood 
Which  only  clothes  the  heart  in  solitude. 
A  thought  of  voiceless  death. — She  stood  alone, 
Above,  the   heavens  were  spread; — below,  the 

flood 
Was   murmuring   in  its  caves; — the  wind  had 

blown 
Her  hair  apart,  thro'  which  her  eyes  and  forehead 

shone. 

ii. 

A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er  the  western  mountains ; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth  were  flying 
Gray    mists    poured    forth    from    the    unresting 

fountains 
Of  darkness  in  the  North: — the  day  was  dying: — 
Sudden,  the  sun   shone  forth ;    its  beams  were 

lyi  no- 
Like  boiling  gold  on  Ocean,  strange  to  see, 
And  on  the  shattered  vapours,  which,  defying 


THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM.  209 

The  power  of  light  in  vain,  tossed  restlessly 
In  the  red  heaven,  like  wrecks  in  a  tempestuous  sea. 


It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  whose  bank 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft  was  made ; 
And  where  its  chasms  that  flood  of  glory  drank, 
Its  waves  gushed  forth  like  fire,  and,  as  if  swayed 
By  some  mute  tempest,  rolled  on  her.   The  shade 
Of  her  bright  image  floated  on  the  river 
Of  liquid  light,  which  then  did  end  and  fade — 
Her  radiant  shape  upon  its  verge  did  shiver ; 
Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  strings  of  flame  did 
quiver. 


I  stood  beside  her,  but  she  saw  me  not — 

She  looked  upon  the  sea,  and  skies,  and  earth. 

Rapture,  and  love,  and  admiration,  wrought 

A  passion  deeper  far  than  tears,  or  mirth, 

Or  speech,  or  gesture,  or  whate'er  has  birth 

From  common  joy ;    which,  with  the  speechless 

feeling 
That  led  her  there,  united,  and  shot  forth 
From  her  far  eyes,  a  light  of  deep  revealing, 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard  concealing. 


Her  lips  were  parted,  and  the  measured  breath 
Was  now  heard  there ; — her  dark  and  intricate 

eyes 
Orb  within  orb,  deeper  than  sleep  or  death, 
Absorbed  the  glories  of  the  burning  skies, 
Which,  mingling  with  her  heart's  deep  ecstasies, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures ; — and  a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness,  like  love,  did  rise 
From  her  whole  frame, — an  atmosphere  which 
quite  [bright. 

Arrayed  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and  soft  and 


BOO  THE    REVOLT    OK    [SLAM. 


VI. 

She.    Mould    have   clasped   me    to   her   glowing 

fi  ame ; 
Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might  soon  have 

slic<l 

On  mine  the  fragrance  and  the  invisible  flame 

Which   now   the   cold   winds  stole; — she   would 

have  laid 
Upon  my  languid  heart  her  dearest  head ; 
I    might    have    heard    her   voice,    tender    and 

sweet ; 
Her  eves  mingling  with  mine,  might  soon  have 

fed 
My  soul  with  their  own  joy. — One  moment  yet 
I  gazed — we  parted  then,  never  again  to  meet ! 

VII. 

Never  but  once  to  meet  on  earth  again  ! 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled — her  eager  tone 
Sank  on  my  heart,  and  almost  wove  a  chain 
Around  my  will  to  link  it  with  her  own. 
So  that  my  stern  resolve  was  almost  gone. 
"  I  cannot  reach  thee  !  wdiither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
My  steps  are  faint. — Come  back,  thou  dearest 

one — 
Return,  ah  me  !  return  !  "    The  wind  passed  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far,  and  linger- 

ingly. 

VIII. 

Woe  !  woe  !  that  moonless  midnight. — Want  and 

Pest 
Were  horrible,  but  one  more  fell  doth  rear, 
As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 
Eminent  among  those  victims — even  the  Fear 
Of  Hell:  each  girt  by  the  hoi  atmosphere 
Of  his  blind  agony,  like  a  scorpion  stung 
By  his  own  rage  upon  his  burning  bier 


THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM.  301 

Of  circling  coals  of  fire  ;  but  still  there  clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  on  starting  threads 
uphung : 

IX. 

Not  death — death  was  no  more  refuge  or  rest ; 
Not  life — it  was  despair  to  be  ! — not  sleep, 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dispossessed 
All  natural  dreams ;  to  wake  was  not  to  weep, 
But  to  gaze  mad  and  pallid,  at  the  leap 
To  which  the  Future,  like  a  snaky  scourge, 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye,  which  aye  doth  keep 
Its  withering  beam  upon  his  slaves,  did  urge 
Their  steps : — they  heard  the  roar  of  Hell's  sul- 
phureous surge. 

x. 

Each  of  that  multitude  alone,  and  lost 

To  sense  of  outward  things,  one  hope  yet  knew ; 

As  on  a  foam-girt  crag  some  seaman  tost, 

Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the  crew 

Whilst  now   the  ship  is    splitting   through   and 
ii 
through ; 

Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was  heard, 

Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there  flew 

One  murmur  on  the  wind,  or  if  some  word 

Which  none  can  gather  yet,  the  distant  crowd  has 

stirred. 

XI. 

Why  became  cheeks,  wan  with  the  kiss  of  death, 
Paler  from  hope  ?  they  had  sustained  despair. 
Why    watched   those    myriads   with   suspended 

breath 
Sleepless  a  second  night  ?  they  are  not  here 
The  victims,  and  hour  by  hoar,  a  vision  drear, 
Warm  corpses  fall  upon  the  clay-cold  dead ; 
And  even  in  death  their  lips  are  writhed  with 

fear. 


|02  l  IN-    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Hie  crowd  is  mute  and  moveless — overhead 
Sili-iit  Arcturus  shines — Ha!  hear'st  thou  not  the 
tread 

XII. 

Of  rushing  feet  ?  laughter  ?  the  shout,  the  scream, 
Of  triumph  not  to  be  contained  ?     See  !  hark  ! 
They  come,  they  come  !  give  way!  Alas,  ye  deem 
Falsely — 'tis  but  a  crowd  of  maniacs  stark 
Driven,  like  a  troop  of  spectres,  through  the  dark 
From  the  choked  well,  whence  a  bright  death- 
fire  sprung, 
A  lurid  earth-star,  which  dropped  many  a  spark 
From  its  blue  train,  and  spreading  widely,  clung 
To   their  wild  hair,  like  mist  the  topmost  pines 
among. 

XIII. 

And  many,  from  the  crowd  collected  there, 
Joined  that  strange  dance  in  fearful  sympathies; 
There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despair. 
When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible  cries 
Came  from  a  distant  street,  like  agonies 
Stifled  afar. — Before  the  Tyrant's  throne 
All  night  his  aged  Senate  sate,  their  eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fixed ;  when  one 
Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  Stranger  and  alone. 

XIV. 

Dark   Priests  and  haughty  Warriors  gazed  on 

him 
With  baffled  wonder,  for  a  hermit's  vest 
Concealed  his  face  :  but  when  he  spake.  Ins  tone, 
Ere  yet  the  matter  did  their  thoughts  arrest, 
Earnest,  benignant,  calm,  as  from  a  breast 
Void  of  all  hate  or  terror,  made  them  start; 
For  as  with  gentle  accents  he  addressed 
His  speech  to  them,  on  each  unwilling  heart 
Unusual  awe  did  fall — a  spirit-quelling  dart. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  303 


"  Ye  Princes  of  the  Earth,  ye  sit  aghast 
Amid  the  ruin  which  yourselves  have  made ; 
Yes,  Desolation  heard  your  trumpet's  blast, 
And  sprang  from  sleep  ! — dark  Terror  has  obeyed 
Your  bidding — Oh  that  I,  whom  ye  have  made 
Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy  free 
From  pain  and  fear !  but  evil  casts  a  shade 
Which  cannot  pass  so  soon,  and  Hate  must  be 
The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  progeny. 

XVI. 

"  Ye  turn  to  Heaven  for  aid  in  your  distress ; 
Alas,  that  ye,  the  mighty  and  the  wise, 
Who,  if  ye  dared,  might  not  aspire  to  less 
Than  ye  conceive  of  power,  should  fear  the  lies 
Which  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame  for  mysteries 
To    blind    your    slaves: — consider    your    own 

thought, 
An  empty  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 
Ye  now  prepare,  for  a  vain  idol  wrought 
Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain  desires  have 

brought. 

XVII. 

"  Ye  seek  for  happiness — alas  the  day  ! 
Ye  find  it  not  in  luxury  nor  in  gold, 
Nor  in  the  fame,  nor  in  the  envied  sway 
For  which,  O  willing  slaves  to  Custom  old, 
Severe  task-mistress  !  ye  your  hearts  have  sold. 
Ye  seek  for  peace,  and  when  ye  die,  to  dream 
No  evil  dreams ;  all  mortal  things  are  cold 
And  senseless  then.     If  aught  survive,  I  deem 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,  for  they  immortal  seem. 


u  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not  for  the  past. 
Oh,  could  I  win  your  ears  to  dare  be  bow 


304  THE    REVOLT    <>K    ISLAM 

Glorious,  and  great,  and  calm !  that  ye  would 

cast 
Into  the  dust  those  symbols  of  your  woe, 
Purple,  and  gold,  and  steel!  that  ye  would  go 
Proclaiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye  came, 
That  Want,  and  Plague,  and  Fear,  from  slavery 

flow ; 
And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  the  shame 
Of  royalty  and  faith  is  lost  in  freedom's  fame. 

XIX. 

"  If  thus  'tis  well — if  not,  I  come  to  say 
That  Laon — ."   While  the  Stranger  spoke,  among 
The  Council  sudden  tumult  and  affray 
Arose,  for  many  of  those  warriors  young 
Had  on  Ins  eloquent  accents  fed  and  hung 
Like  bees  on  mountain-flowers  !  they  knew  the 

truth. 
And  from  their  thrones  in  vindication  sprung ; 
The  men  of  faith  and  law  then  without  ruth 
Drew  forth  their  secret   steel,  and  stabbed  each 

ardent  youth. 

xx. 

They  stabbed  them  in  the  back   and    sneered. 

A  slave 
Who  stood  behind  the  throne,  those  corpses  drew 
Each  to  its  blood}-,  dark,  and  secret  grave  ; 
And  one  more  daring  raised  his  steel  anew 
To  pierce  the  Stranger:  "  What  hast  thou  to  do 
With   me,  poor  wretch  ?  " — Calm,  solemn,  and 

severe, 
That  voice  unstrung  his  sinews,  and  he  threw 
His  dagger  on  the  ground,  and  pale  with  fear, 
Sate  silently — his  voice  then  did  the  Stranger  rear. 

XXI. 

"  It  doth  avail  not  that  I  weep  for  ye— 

Ye  cannot  change,  since  ye  are  old  and  gray, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  805 

And  ve  have  chosen  vonr  lot — your  fame  must 

be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder  day 
Jlen  shall  learn  truth,  when  ye  are  wrapt  in  clay  : 
Now  ye  shall  triumph.     I  am  Laon's  friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  betray, 
So  ye  concede  one  easy  boon.     Attend ! 
For  now  I  speak  of  things  which  ye  can  apprehend. 


"  There  is  a  People  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land  beyond  the  Oceans  of  the  "West, 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites,  Freedom  and 

Truth 
Are  worshipped;  from  a  glorious  mother's  breast 
Who.  since  high  Athens  fell,  among  the  rest 
Sate  like  the  Queen  of  Nations,  but  in  woe, 
By  inbred  monsters  outraged  and  oppressed, 
Turns  to  her  chainless  child  for  succour  now, 
And  draws  the  milk  of  power  in  Wisdom's  fullest 

flow. 


"  This  land  is  like  an  Eagle,  whose  young  gaze 
Feeds  on  the  noontide  beam,  whose  golden  plume 
Floats  moveless  on  the  storm,  and  in  the  blaze 
Of  sunrise  gleams  when  earth  is  wrapt  in  gloom  ; 
An  epitaph  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murdered  Europe  may  thy  fame  be  made. 
Great   People !      As  the    sands   shalt   thou  be- 
come ; 
Thy  growth  is  swift  as  morn,  when  night  must 
fade  ; 
The  multitudinous   Earth  shall  sleep  beneath  thy 
shade. 

XXIV. 

"  Yes,  in  the  desert  then  is  built  a  home 

For  Freedom.     Genius  is  made  strong  to  rear 

VuL.  i.  20 


806  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  monuments  of  man  beneath  the  dome 
Of  a  new  heaven  ;  myriads  assemble  there, 
Whom  the  proud  lords  of  man,  in  rage  or  fear, 
Drive  from  their  wasted  homes.     The  boon  I 

pray 
Is  this, — that  Cythna  shall  be  convoyed  there, — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name — America ! 
And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I  betray. 


"  With  me  do  what  ye  will.     I  am  your  foe  ! " 
The  light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the  stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds  glow, 
Shone  in    a   hundred   human    eyes. — "  Where, 

where 
Is  Laon  ?  haste  !  fly  !  drag  him  swiftly  here ! 
We  grant  thy  boon." — "  I  put  no  trust  in  ye, 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread." — "  We  swear, 

we  swear  ! " 
The  Stranger  threw  his  vest  back  suddenly. 
And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said,  "  Lo  !  I  am 

he!" 


CANTO  XII. 

i. 

The  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous  glad- 
ness 
Spread  through  the  multitudinous   streets,  fast 

flying 
Upon  the  winds  of  fear ;  from  his  dull  madness 
The    starveling  waked,  and   died   in  joy ;    the 

dying. 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  lying, 
Just  heard  the  happy  tidings,  and  in  hope 
Closed  their   faint   eyes ;    from  house  to  house 
replying 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  307 


With  loud  acclaim,  the  living  shook  Heaven's 
cope, 
died  th 

did  ope 


cope, 
And  filled  the  startled  Earth  with  echoes  :  morn 


ii. 

Its  pale  eyes  then  ;  and  lo  !  the  long  array 
Of  guards  in  golden  arms,  and  priests  beside, 
Singing  their  bloody  hymns,  whose  garbs  betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems  to  hide  ; 
And  see  the  Tyrant's  gem-wrought  chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and  glittering  spears — 
A  shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A  child  most  beautiful.     F  the  midst  appears 
Laon — exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes  and  fears. 

in. 
His  head  and  feet  are  bare,  his  hands  are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none  do  wreak 
Their   scoffs    on    him,    though    myriads    throng 

around ; 
There  are  no  sneers  upon  his  lip  which  speak 
That  scorn   or  hate    has   made   him   bold ;    his 

cheek 
Resolve  has  not  turned  pale, — his  eyes  are  mild 
And  calm,  and  like  the  morn  about  to  break, 
Smile  on  mankind — his  heart  seems  reconciled 
To  all  things  and  itself,  like  a  reposing  child. 

IV. 

Tumult  was  in  the  soul  of  all  beside, 
111  joy,  or  doubt,  or  fear  ;  but  those  who  saw 
Their  tranquil  victim  pass,  felt  wonder  glide 
Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm  with  awe. — 
See,  the  slow  pageant  near  the  pile  doth  draw. 
A  thousand  torches  in  the  spacious  square, 
Borne  by  the  ready  slaves  of  ruthless  law, 
Await  the  signal  round:  the  morning  fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  unnatural  glare. 


808  THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


V. 

And  see  !  beneath  a  sun-bright  canopy, 
Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile, 
The  anxious  Tyrant  sit,  enthroned  on  high, 
Girt  by  the  chieftains  of  the  host.     All  smile 
In  expectation,  but  one  child :  the  while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  ascend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around.     Each  distant  isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn  ;  towers  far  and  near 
Pierce  like  reposing  flames  the  tremulous  atmos- 
phere. 


There  was   such   silence   through   the   host,  as 

when 
An    earthquake,  trampling   on    some   populous 

town, 
Has  crushed  ten  thousand  with  one  tread,  and 

men 
Expect  the  second ;  all  were  mute  but  one, 
That  fairest  child,  who,  bold  with  love,  alone 
Stood  up  before  the  king,  without  avail, 
Pleading  for  Laon's  life — her  stifled  groan 
Was  heard — she  trembled  like  an  aspen  pale 
Among  the  gloomy  pines  of  a  Norwegian  vale. 


What  were  his  thoughts  linked  in  the  morning 

sun, 
Among  those  reptiles,  stingless  with  delay. 
Even  like  a  tyrant's  wrath? — The  signal-gun 
Roared — hark,  again !     In  that  dread  paiise  he 

lay 
As  in  a  quiet  dream — the  slaves  obey — 
A  thousand  torches  drop. — and  hark,  the  last 
Bursts  on  that  awful  silence.     Far  a  way 
Millions,  Avith  hearts  that  beat  both  loud  and  fast, 
Watch  for  the  springing  flame  expectant  and  aghast. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  309 


VIII. 

They  fly — the  torches  fall — a  cry  of  fear 
Has  startled  the  triumphant ! — they  recede  ! 
For  ere  the  cannon's  roar  has  died,  they  hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthcpiake,  and  a  steed 
Dark  and  gigantic,  with  the  tempest's  speed, 
Bursts  through  their  ranks  :  a  woman  sits  thereon, 
Fairer  it  seems  than  aught  that  earth  can  breed, 
Calm,  radiant,  like  the  phantom  of  the  dawn, 
A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wandering 
crone. 


All  thought  it  was  God's  Angel  come  to  sweep 
The  lingering  guilty  to  their  fiery  grave  ; 
The  tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread  did  leap, — 
Her  innocence  his  child  from  fear  did  save. 
Scared  by  the  faith  they  feigned,  each  priestly 

slave 
Knelt  for   his   mercy  whom   they   served  with 

blood, 
And,  like  the  refluence  of  a  mighty  wave 
Sucked  into  the  loud  sea,  the  multitude 
With  crushing  panic,  fled  in  terror's  altered  mood. 

x. 

They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze  ;  a  gathering 

shout 
Bursts   like    one  sound  from  the  ten  thousand 

streams 
Of  a  tempestuous  sea : — that  sudden  rout 
One  checked,  who  never  in  his  mildest  dreams 
Felt  awe  from  grace  or  loveliness,  the  seams 
Of  his  rent  heart  so  hard  and  cold  a  creed 
Had  seared  with  blistering  ice — but  he  misdeems 
That  he  is  wise,  whose  wounds  do  only  bleed 
Inly  for  self;  thus  thought  the  Iberian  Priest  in- 
deed ; 


310  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XI. 

And  others,  too,  thought  he  was  wise  to  see, 
In  pain,  and  fear,  and  hate,  something  divine  ; 
In  love  and  beauty — no  divinity. — 
Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  Avhose  light  did  shine 
Like  a  fiend's  hope  upon  his  lips  and  eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of  that  sneer 
Rallied  his  trembling  comrades — "  Is  it  mine 
To  stand  alone,  when  kings  and  soldiers  fear 
A  woman  ?    Heaven  has  sent  its  other  victim  here." 


"  Were  it  not  impious,"  said  the  King,  "  to  break 
Our  holy  oath  ?  " — "  Impious  to  keep  it,  say  ! " 
Shrieked  the  exulting  Priest : — "  Slaves,  to  the 

stake 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  burthen  lay 
Of  her  just  torments  : — at  the  Judgment  Day 
Will  I  stand  up  before  the  golden  throne 
Of  Heaven,  and  cry,  to  thee  I  did  betray 
An  infidel !  but  for  me  she  would  have  known 
Another  moment's  joy  ! — the  glory  be  thine  own." 


They  trembled,  but  replied  not,  nor  obeyed, 
Pausing  in  breathless  silence.     Cythna  sprung 
From  her  gigantic  steed,  who,  like  a  shade 
Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant  streets  among 
Fled  tameless,  as  the  brazen  rein  she  flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  mooned  brow. 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and  young, 
The  clasp  of  such  a  fearful  death  should  woo 
With  smiles  of  tender  joy  as  beamed  from  Cythna 


The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite  of  faith  and  fear, 
From  many  a  tremulous  eye,  but,  like  soft  dews 


THE    REVOLT    OJ    ISLAM.  311 

Which  feed  spring's  earliest  buds,  hung  gathered 

there, 
Frozen  by  doubt, — alas  !  they  could  not  choose 
But  weep ;  for  when  her  faint  limbs  did  refuse 
To  climb  the  pyre,  upon  the  mutes  she  smiled ; 
And  with  her  eloquent  gestures,  and  the  hues 
Of  her  quick  lips,  even  as  a  weary  child 
Wins  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with  its  caresses 

mild, 

xv. 

She  won  them,  though  unwilling,  her  to  bind 
Near  me,  among  the  stakes.    When  then  had  fled 
One  soft  reproach  that  was  most  thrilling  kind, 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then  we  said, 
But  each  upon  the  other's  countenance  fed 
Looks  of  insatiate  love  ;  the  mighty  veil 
Which  doth  divide  the  living  and  the  dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim  and  pale, — 
All  light  in  Heaven  or  Earth  beside  our  love  did 
fail.— 

XVI. 

Yet, — yet — one  brief  relapse,  like  the  last  beam 
Of  dying  flames,  the  stainless  air  around 
Hung  silent  and  serene. — A  blood-red  gleam 
Burst  upwards,  hurling  fiercely  from  the  ground 
The  globed  smoke. — I  heard  the  mighty  sound 
Of  its  uprise,  like  a  tempestuous  ocean ; 
And,  through  its  chasms  I  saw,  as  in  a  swound, 
The  Tyrant's  child  fall  without  life  or  motion 
Before  his  throne,  subdued  bv  some  unseen  emotion. 


And  is  this  death  ?     The  pyre  has  disappeared, 
The  Pestilence,  the  Tyrant",  and  the  throng; 
The  flames  grow  silent — slowly  there  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  breath-suspending  song', 
Which,  like  the  kiss  of  love  when  life  is  young, 


."ilj!  THE    REVOL1     OF    [SftAM. 

Steeps  the  fainl  eyes  in  darkness  sweet  and  deep; 
With  ever-changing  notes  it  floats  along, 
Till  on  my  passive  soul  there  seemed  to  creep 
A  melody,  like  waves  on  wrinkled  sands  that  leap. 


The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremulous  hand 
Wakened  me  then  ;  lo,  Cythna  sate  reclined 
Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden  sand 
Of  a  clear  pool,  upon  a  bank  o'ertwined 
With  strange  and  star-bright  flowers,  which  to 

the  wind 
Breathed  divine  odour  ;  high  above  was  spread 
The  emerald  heaven  of  trees  of  unknown  kind, 
Whose  moonhke  blooms  and  bright  fruit  over- 
head 
A  shadow,  which  was  light,  upon  the  waters  shed. 

XIX. 

And  round  about  sloped  many  a  lawny  mountain 
With  incense-bearing  forests,  and  vasts  caves 
Of  marble  radiance  to  that  mighty  fountain  ; 
And  where  the  ilood  its  own  bright  margin  laves, 
Their  echoes  talk  with  its  eternal  waves, 
Which,  from  the  depths  whose  jagged  caverns 

breed 
Their  unreposing  strife,  it  lifts  and  heaves, 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll,  and  feed 
A  river  deep,  which  flies  with  smooth  but  arrowy 


xx. 

As  we  sate  gazing  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
A  boat  approached,  borne  by  the  musical  air 
Along  the  waves,  which  sung  and  sparkled  under 
Its  rapid  keel — a  winged  shape  sate  there, 
A  child  with  silver-shining  wings,  so  lair, 
That  as  her  bark  did  through  the  waters  glide, 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves  did  wear 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  313 

Light,  as  from  starry  beams ;  from  side  to  side, 
While  veering  to  the  wind,  her  plumes  the  bark 
did  guide. 

XXI. 

The  boat  was  one  curved  shell  of  hollow  pearl, 
Almost  translucent  with  the  light  divine 
Of  her  within ;  the  prow  and  stern  did  curl, 
Horned  on  high,  like  the  young  moon  supine, 
When,  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains  dark  with 

pine, 
It  floats  upon  the  sunset's  sea  of  beams, 
Whose  golden  waves  in  many  a  purple  line 
Fade  fast,  till,  borne  on  sunlight's  ebbing  streams, 
Dilating,  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken  meteor  gleams. 

XXII. 

Its  keel  has  struck  the  sands  beside  our  feet ; — 
Then  Cythna  turned  to  me,  and  from  her  eyes 
Which   swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look  more 

sweet 
Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad  surprise, 
Glanced  as  she  spake  :  "  Aye,  this  is  Paradise 
And  not  a  dream,  and  we  are  all  united  ! 
Lo,  that  is  mine  own  child,  who,  in  the  guise 
Of  madness,  came  like  day  to  one  benighted 
In   lonesome  woods :    my  heart  is  now  too  well 

requited  ! " 


And  then  she  wept  aloud,  and  in  her  arms 
Clasped  that  bright  Shape,  less  marvellously  fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and  living  charms ; 
Which,  as  she  leaned  in  passion's  silence  there, 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold'bosom  of  the  air, 
Which  seemed  to  blush  and  tremble  Avith  delight; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  her  streaming  hair 
Fell  o'er  that  snowy  child,  and  wrapt  from  sight 
The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did  their  hearts 
unite. 


E14  THE    REVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 


XXIV. 

Then  the  bright  child,  the  plumed  Seraph,  came, 
And  fixed  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes  on  mine, 
And  said,  "I  was  disturbed  by  tremulous  shame 
When  once  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I  was  thine 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy  lips  divine 
Kindled  a  clinging  dream  within  my  brain, 
Which  ever  waked  when  I  might  sleep,  to  twine 
Thine  image  with  her  memory  dear — again 
We   meet ;    exempted   now  from  mortal   fear  or 
pain. 


u  When   the   consuming  flames   had   wrapt  ye 

round, 
The  hope  which  I  had  cherished  went  away ; 
I  fell  in  agonv  on  the  senseless  ground, 
And  hid  mine  eyes  in  dust,  and  far  astray 
My  mind  was  gone,  when  bright,  like  dawning 

day, 
The  Spectre  of  the  Plague  before  me  flew, 
And  breathed  upon  my  lips,  and  seemed  to  say, 
'  They  wait  for  thee,  beloved  ! ' — then  I  knew 
The  death-mark  on  my  breast,  and  became  calm 

anew. 


"  It  was  the  calm  of  love — for  I  was  dying. 
I  saw  the  black  and  half-extinguished  pyre 
In  its  own  gray  and  shrunken  ashes  lying ; 
The  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed  fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome  and  spire 
Above   the  towers,   like   night;    beneath  whose 

shade, 
Awed  by  the  ending  of  their  own  desire, 
The  armies  stood  ;  a  vacancy  was  made 
In  expectation's  depth,  and  so  they  stood  dismayed. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  M5 


XXVII. 

"  The  frightful  silence  of  that  altered  mood, 
The  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone, 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude, 
And  said — •  The  flood  of  time  is  rolling  on, 
We  stand  upon  its  brink,  whilst  they  are  gone 
To  glide  in  peace  down  death's  mysterious  stream. 
Have  ye  done  well '?     They  moulder  flesh  and 

bone, 
Who   might   have   made   this  life's   envenomed 

dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  will  ever  taste,  I  deem. 

XXVIII. 

"  '  These  perish  as  the  good  and  great  of  yore 
Have  perished,  and  their  murderers  will  repent. 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  shall  flow  before 
Yon  smoke  has  faded  from  the  firmament 
Even  for  this  cause,  that  ye,  who  must  lament 
The  death  of  those  that  made  this  world  so  fair, 
Cannot  recall  them  now ;  but  then  is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  high  despair, 
When  such  can  die,  and  he  live   on  and  linger 
here. 

XXIX. 

"  '  Aye,  ye  may  fear  not  now  the  Pestilence, 
From  fabled  hell  as  by  a  charm  withdrawn  ; 
All   power   and   faith  must   pass,  since  calmly 

hence 
In  pain  and  fire  have  unbelievers  gone  ; 
And  ye  must  sadlv  turn  away,  and  moan 


mm; 


JT    ' 


In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  retui 
And  to  long  ages  shall  this  hour  be  known  : 
And  slowly  shall  its  memory,  ever  burning, 
ill   this    dark    night    of   things    with    an    eternal 
morning. 


31G  I  m:    Ki.voi.i    OF    [SLAM. 


" '  For  me  the  world  is  grown  too  void  and  cold, 
Since  hope  pursues  immortal  destiny 
With  steps  thus  slow — therefore  shall  ye  behold 
How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not,  dare  to  die  ; 
Tell  to  your  children  this  ! '  then  suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and  fell ; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and  yet  to  me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd  to  tell 
Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  suddenly  befell. 

XXXI. 

"  Then  suddenly  I  stood  a  winged  Thought 
Before  the  immortal  Senate,  and  the  seat 
Of  that  star-shining  spirit,  whence  is  wrought 
The  strength  of  its  dominion,  good  and  great, 
The  better  Genius  of  this  world's  estate. 
His  realm  around  one  mighty  Fane  is  spread, 
Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate, 
Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy  dead, 
Where  I  am  sent  to  lead  ! "     These  winged  words 
she  said, 

XXXII. 

And  with  the  silence  of  her  eloquent  smile, 
Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine  canoe  ; 
Then  at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat,  the  while 
Above  her  head  those  plumes  of  dazzling  hue 
Into  the  winds'  invisible  stream  she  threw, 
Sitting  beside  the  prow :  like  gossamer, 
On  the  swift  breath  of  morn,  the  vessel  flew 
O'er  the  bright  whirlpools  of  that  fountain  fair, 
Whose  shores  receded  last,  while  we  seemed  linger- 
ing there ; 

XXXIII. 

Till  down  that  mightv  stream  dark,  calm,  and 
fleet, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  317 

Between  a  chasm  of  cedar  mountains  riven, 
Chased  bv  the  thronging  winds,  whose  viewless 

feet 
As  swift  as  twinkling  beams,  had,  under  heaven, 
From  woods  and  waves  wild  sounds  and  odoui-s 

driven, 
The  boat  flew  visibly — three  nights  and  days. 
Borne  like  a  cloud  through  morn,  and  noon,  and 

even, 
We  sailed  along  the  winding  watery  ways 
Of  the  vast  stream,  a  long  and  labyrinthine  maze. 

xxxiv. 
A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold 
That  river's  shapes  and  shadows  changing  ever, 
Where  the  broad  sunrise  filled  with  deepening 

gold  [         S 

Its  whirlpools,  where   all   hues  did  spread  and 

quiver, 
And  where  melodious  falls  did  burst  and  shiver 
Among  rocks  clad  with  flowers,  the  foam  and 

spray 
Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny  river, 
Or  when  the  moonlight  poured  a  holier  day, 
One  vast  and  glittering  lake  around  green  islands 

lav. 


Morn,  noon,  and  even,  that  boat  of  pearl  outran 
The  streams  which  bore  it,  like  the  arrowy  cloud 
Of  tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought  of  man, 
Which  flieth  forth  and  cannot  make  abode  : 
Sometimes  through  forests,  deep  like  night,  we 

glode, 
Between  the  walls  of  mighty  mountains  crowned 
With  Cyclopean  piles,  whose  turrets  proud, 
The  homes  of  the  departed,  dimly  frowned 
O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their  dark  founda- 
tions round. 


818  TIIK    REVOLT    OF    [BLAST. 


XXXVI. 

Sometimes    between    the    wide    and    flowering 

meadows, 
Mile  after  mile  we  sailed,  and  'twas  delight 
To  Bee  far  off  the  sunbeams  cdiase  the  shadows 
Over  the  grass;  sometimes  beneath  the  night 
Ot'  wide   and   vaulted   eaves,  whose   roofs   were 

bright 
With    starry  gems,  we    fled,    whilst   from    their 

dee]) 
And  dark  green   chasms,  shades  beautiful  and 

white, 
Amid    sweet    sounds    across    our    path   would 

sweep 
Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  that  walk  the  waves 

of  sleep. 

XXXVII. 

And  ever  as  we  sailed,  our  minds  were  full 
Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would  overflow 
In  converse  wild,  and  sweet,  and  wonderful ; 
And  in   quick  smiles  whose  light  would  come 

and  go, 
Like  music  o'er  wide  waves  and  in  the  flow 
Of  sudden  tears,  and  in  the  mute  caress — 
For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we  did  know, 
That    virtue,    though    obscured    on    Earth,    not 

less 
Survives  all  mortal  change  in  lasting  loveliness. 

XXXVIII. 

Three  days  and  nights  we  sailed,  as  thought  and 

feeling 
Jfumber  delightful  hours — for  through  the  sky 
The  sphered  Lamps  of  day  and  night,  revealing 
New  changes  and  new  glories,  rolled  on  high, 
Sun.  Moon,  and  moonlike  lamps,  the  progeny 
Of  a  diviner  Heaven,  serene  and  fair  : 


THE    REVOLT   OF    ISLAM.  319 

On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind-wrought  sea, 
The  stream  became,  and  fast  and  faster  bare 
The  spirit- winged  boat,  steadily  speeding  there. 

XXXIX. 

Steadily  and  swift,  where  the  waves  rolled  like 

mountains 
Within  the  vast  ravine,  whose  rifts  did  pour. 
Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten  thousand  foun- 
tains, 
The  thunder  of  whose  earth-uplifting  roar 
Made   the    air   sweep    in    whirlwinds   from   the 

shore, 
Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair  child 
Securely  fled,  that  rapid  stress  before, 
Amid  the  topmost  spray,  and  sunbows  wild, 
Wreathed  in  the  silver  mist :  in  joy  and  pride  we 
smiled. 

XL. 

The  torrent  of  that  wide  and  raging  river 
Is  passed,  and  our  aerial  speed  suspended. 
We  look  behind ;  a  golden  mist  did  quiver 
When  its  wild  surges  with  the  lake  were  blended  : 
Our  bark  hung  there,  as  one  line  suspended 
Between   two   heavens,  that  windless  waveless 

lake  ; 
Which  four  great  cataracts  from  four  vales, 

attended 
By  mists,  aye  feed,  from  rocks  and  clouds  they 

break, 
A.nd  of  that  azure  sea  a  silent  refuge  make. 

XLI. 

Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I  saw  its  marge  of  snow-bright  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  aloft,  I  saw  each  radiant  isle, 
And  in  the  midst,  afar,  even  like  a  sphere 
liung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there  appear 


320  THE    REVOLT    OF    [SLAM. 

The  Temple  of  the  Spirit ;  on  the  sound 
Which   issued   thence,  drawn  nearer  and  more 

near. 
Like  the  swift  moon  this  glorious  earth  around, 
Tin-  charmed  boat  approached,  and  there  its  haven 
found. 


NOTE  ON  THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 

BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

Shelley  possessed  two  remarkable  qualities  of  intel- 
lect— a  brilliant  imagination  and  a  logical  exactness  of 
reason.  His  inclinations  led  him  (lie  fancied)  almost 
alike  to  poetry  and  metaphysical  discussions.  I  say  "  he 
fancied,"  because  I  believe  the  former  to  have  been  para- 
mount, and  that  it  would  have  gained  the  mastery  even 
had  he  struggled  against  it.  However,  he  said  that  he 
deliberated  at  one  time  whether  he  should  dedicate  him- 
self to  poetry  or  metaphysics,  and  resolving  on  the  former, 
he  educated'  himself  for  it,  discarding  in  a  great  measure 
his  philosophical  pursuits,  and  engaging  himself  in  the 
study  of  the  poets  of  Greece,  Italy,  and  England.  To 
these  may  be  added  a  constant  perusal  of  portions  of  the 
Old  Testament — the  Psalms,  the  book  of  Job,  the  Prophet 
Isaiah,  and  others,  the  sublime  poetry  of  which  filled  him 
with  delight. 

As  a  poet,  his  intellect  and  compositions  were  power- 
fully influenced  by  exterior  circumstances,  and  especially 
by  his  place  of  abode.  He  was  very  fond  of  travelling, 
and  ill  health  increased  this  restlessness.  The  sufferings 
Occasioned  by  a  cold  English  winter,  made  him  pine, 
especially  when  our  colder  spring  arrived,  for  a  more 
genial  climate.  In  1816  he  again  visited  Switzerland,  and 
rented  a  house  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Geneva ;  and 
many  a  day,  m  cloud  or  sunshine,  was  passed  alone  in  his 
boat— sailing  as  the  wind  listed,  or  weltering  on  the  calm 
waters.  The  majestic  aspect  of  nature  ministered  such 
thoughts  as  he  afterwards  inwove  in  verse.  His  lines  on 
the  Bridge  of  the  Arve,  and  his  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty,  were  written  at  this  time.  Perhaps  during  this 
summer  his  genius  was  checked  by  association  with 
another  poet  whose  nature  was  utterly  dissimilar  to  his 
own,  yet  who,  in  the  poem  he  wrote  at  that  time,  gave 
tokens  that  he  shared  for  a  period  the  more  abstract  and 
etherealized  inspiration  of  Shelley.  The  saddest  events 
awaited  his  return  to  England;  but  such  was  his  fear  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  others,  that  he  never  expressed  the 

VOL.  I.  21 


322  NOTE    ON    THE    REVOLT    OF   ISLAM. 

anguish  he  felt,  and  seldom  gave  vent  to  the  indignation 
roused  by  the  persecutions  he  underwent;  while  the 
course  of1  deep  unexpressed  passion,  and  the  sense  of 
Injury,  engendered  the  desire  to  embody  themselves  in 
forms  defecated  of  all  the  weakness  and  evil  which  cling 
to  real  life. 

He  chose  therefore  for  his  hero  a  youth  nourished  in 
dreams  of  liberty,  some  of  whose  actions  are  in  direct  op- 
position to  the  opinions  of  the  world;  but  who  is  animated 
throughout  by  an  ardent  love  of  virtue,  and  a  resolution 
to  confer  the  boons  of  political  and  intellectual  freedom  on 
his  fellow-creatures.  He  created  for  this  youth  a  woman 
such  as  he  delighted  to  imagine — full  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  same  objects;  and  they  both,  with  will  unvanquished 
and  the  deepest  sense  of  the  justice  of  their  cause,  met 
adversity  and  death.  There  exists  in  this  poem  a  memo- 
rial of  a  friend  of  his  youth.  The  character  of  the  old 
man  who  liberates  Laon  from  his  tower-prison,  and  tends 
on  him  in  sickness,  is  founded  on  that  of  Doctor  Lind, 
who,  when  Shelley  was  at  Eaton,  had  often  stood  by  to 
befriend  and  support  him,  and  whose  name  he  never 
mentioned  without  love  and  veneration. 

During  the  year  1817,  we  were  established  at  Marlow, 
in  Buckinghamshire.  Shelley's  choice  of  abode  was  fixed 
chiefly  by  this  town  being  at  no  great  distance  from 
London,  and  its  neighbourhood  to  the  Thames.  The 
poem  Avas  written  in  his  boat,  as  it  floated  under  the 
beech  groves  of  Bisham,  or  during  wanderings  in  the 
neighbouring  country,  which  is  distinguished  for  peculiar 
beauty.  The  chalk  hills  break  into  cliffs  that  overhang 
the  Thames,  or  form  valleys  clothed  with  beech :  the 
wilder  portion  of  the  country  is  rendered  beautiful  by 
exuberant  vegetation;  and  the  cultivated  part  is  pecu- 
liarly fertile.  With  all  this  wealth  of  nature  which, 
either  in  the  form  of  gentlemen's  parks  or  soil  dedicated 
to  agriculture,  flourishes  around,  Marlow  was  inhabited 
1 1  hope  it  is  altered  now)  by  a  very  poor  population.  The 
women  are  lacemakers,  and  lose  their  health  by  sedentary 
labour,  for  which  they  were  very  ill  paid.  *  The  poor- 
laws  ground  to  the  dust  not  only 'the  paupers,  but  those 
Avho  had  risen  just  above  that  state,  and  were  obliged  to 
pay  poor-rates.  The  changes  produced  by  peace  follow- 
ing a  long  war,  and  a  bad  harvest,  brought  with  them  the 
most  heart-rending  evils  to  the  poor.  Shelley  afforded 
what  alleviation  he  co\ild.  In  the  winter,  while  bringing 
out  his  poem,  he  had  a  severe  attack  of  opthalmia,  caught 
while  visiting  the  poor  cottages.     I  mention  these  things, 


NOTE    ON    THE   REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  323 

— for  this  minute  and  active  sympathy  with  his  fellow- 
creatures  gives  a  thousand-fold  interest  to  his  specula- 
tions, and  stamps  with  reality  his  pleadings  for  the  human 
race. 

The  poem,  bold  in  its  opinions  and  uncompromising  in 
their  expression,  met  with  many  censurers,  not  only 
among  those  who  allow  of  no  virtue,  but  such  as  supports 
the  cause  they  espouse,  but  even  among  those  whose 
opinions  were  similar  to  his  own.  I  extract  a  portion  of 
a  letter  written  in  answer  to  one  of  these  friends :  it  best 
details  the  impulses  of  Shelley's  mind  and  his  motives :  it 
was  written  with  entire  unreserve;  and  is  therefore  a 
precious  monument  of  his  own  opinions  of  his  power,  of 
the  purity  of  his  designs,  and  the  ardour  with  which  he 
clung,  in  adversity  and  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  to  views  from  which  he  believed  the  permanent 
happiness  of  mankind  must  eventually  spring. 

"  Marlow,  Dec.  11,  1817. 
"  I  have  read  and  considered  all  that  you  say  about  my 
general  powers,  and  the  particular  instance  of  the  Poem 
in  which  I  have  attempted  to  develop  them.  Nothing 
can  be  more  satisfactory  to  me  than  the  interest  which 
your  admonitions  express.  But  I  think  you  are  mistaken 
in  some  points  with  regard  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  my 
powers,  whatever  be  their  amount.  I  listened  with  def- 
erence and  self-suspicion  to  your  censures  of '  The  Revolt 
of  Islam ; '  but  the  productions  of  mine  which  you  com- 
mend hold  a  very  low  place  in  my  own  esteem;'  and  this 
reassured  me,  in  some  degree  at  least.  The  poem  was 
produced  by  a  series  of  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind 
with  unbounded  and  sustained  enthusiasm.  I  felt  the 
precariousness  of  my  life,  and  I  engaged  in  this  task, 
resolved  to  leave  some  record  of  myself.  Much  of  what 
the  volume  contains  was  written  wi'th  the  same  feeling, 
as  real,  though  not  so  prophetic,  as  the  communications 
of  a  dying  man.  I  never  presumed  indeed  to  consider  it 
any  thing  approaching  to  faultless ;  but  when  I  consider 
contemporary  productions  of  the  same  apparent  preten- 
sions, I  own  I  was  filled  with  confidence.  I  felt  that  it 
was  in  many  respects  a  genuine  picture  of  my  own  mind. 
I  felt  that  the  sentiments  were  true,  not  assumed.  And 
in  this  have  I  long  believed  that  my  power  consists ;  in 
sympathy  and  that  part  of  the  imagination  which  relates 
to  sentiment  and  contemplation.  I  am  formed,  if  for  any 
thing  not  in  common  with  the  herd  of  mankind,  to  appre- 
hend minute  and  remote  distinctions  of  feeling,  whether 


324         NOTE    ON    THE   REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living  beings  which 
surround  us,  and  to  communicate  the  conceptions  which 
result  from  considering  either  the  moral  or  the  material 
universe  as  a  whole.  Of  course,  I  believe  these  faculties, 
which  perhaps  comprehend  all  that  is  sublime  in  man,  to 
exist  very  imperfectly  in  my  own  mind.  But  when  you 
advert  to  my  chancery  paper,  a  cold,  forced,  unimpas- 
sioned,  insignificant  piece  of  cramped  and  cautious  argu- 
ment; and  to  the  little  scrap  about  Mandeville,  which 
expressed  my  feelings  indeed,  but  cost  scarcely  two 
minutes'  thought  to  express,  as  specimens  of  my  powers, 
more  favourable  than  that  which  grew  as  it  were  from 
'the  agony  and  bloody  sweat'  of  intellectual  travail; 
surely  I  must  feel  that  in  some  manner,  either  I  am  mis- 
taken in  believing  that  I  have  any  talent  at  all,  or  you  in 
the  selection  of  the  specimens  of  it.  Yet  after  all,  I  cannot 
but  be  conscious  in  much  of  what  I  write,  of  an  absence 
of  that  tranquillity  which  is  the  attribute  and  accompani- 
ment of  power.  This  feeling  alone  would  make  vour 
most  kind  and  wise  admonitions,  on  the  subject  of  the 
economy  of  intellectual  force,  valuable  to  me.  And  if  I 
live,  or  if  I  see  any  trust  in  coming  years,  doubt  not  but 
that  I  shall  do  something,  whatever  it  may  be,  which 
a  serious  and  earnest  estimate  of  my  powers  will  suggest 
to  me,  and  which  will  be  in  every  respect  accommodated 
to  their  utmost  limits." 


PROMETHEUS     UNBOUND 


A     LYRICAL     DRAMA. 


LN  FOUR  ACTS. 


Audisne  hgec  Amphiarae,  sub  terrain  ab  dite  ? 


PREFACE. 


The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting  as  their  subject 
any  portion  of  their  national  history  or  mythology,  em- 
ployed in  their  treatment  of  it  a  certain  arbitrary  discre- 
tion. They  by  no  means  conceived  themselves  bound  to 
adhere  to  the  common  interpretation,  or  to  imitate  in 
story,  as  in  title,  their  rivals  and  predecessors.  Such  a 
system  would  have  amounted  to  a  resignation  of  those 
claims  to  preference  over  their  competitors  which  incited 
the  composition.  The  Agamemnonian  story  was  exhib- 
ited on  the  Athenian  theatre  with  as  many  variations  as 
dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  emplov  a  similar  license.  The 
"  Prometheus  Unbound"  of  ifischylus  supposed  the  rec- 
onciliation of  Jupiter  with  his  victim  as  the  price  of  the 
disclosure  of  the  danger  threatened  to  his  empire  by  the 
consummation  of  his  marriage  with  Thetis.  Thetis, 
according  to  this  view  of  the  subject,  was  given  in  mar- 
riage to  Peleus,  and  Prometheus,  by  the  permission  of 
Jupiter,  delivered  from  his  captivity  by  Hercules.  Had 
I  framed  my  story  on  this  model,  I  should  have  done  no 
more  than  nave  attempted  to  restore  the  lost  drama  of 
iEschylus ;  an  ambition,  which,  if  my^preference  to  this 
mode  of  treating  the  subject  had  molted  me  to  cherish, 
the  recollection  of  the  high  comparison  such  an  attempt 
would  challenge  might  well  abate.  But,  in  truth,  I  was 
averse  from  a  catastrophe  so  feeble  as  that  of  reconciling 
the  Champion  with  the  Oppressor  of  mankind.  The 
moral  interest  of  the  fable,  which  is  so  powerfully  sus- 
tained by  the  sufferings  and  endurance  of  Prometheus, 
would  be  annihilated  if  we  could  conceive  of  him  as 
unsaying  his  high  language  and  quailing  before  his  suc- 
cessful and  perfidious  adversary.  The  only  imaginary 
being  resembling  in  any  degree  Prometheus,  is  Satan: 
and  Prometheus  is,  in  my  judgment,  a  more  poetical 
character  than  Satan,  because,  in  addition  to  courage, 
and  majesty,  and  firm  and  patient  opposition  to  omnipo- 
tent force,  he  is  susceptible  of  being  described  as  exempt 
from  the  taints  of  ambition,  envy,  revenge,  and  a  desire 
for  personal  aggrandizement,  which  in  the  Hero  of  Para- 


828  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

disc.  Lost,  interfere  with  the  interest.  The  character  of 
Satan  engenders  in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry  which 
■ads  as  to  weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs,  and  to 
excuse  the  former  hecause  the  latter  exceed  all  measure. 
In  the  minds  of  those  who  consider  that  magnificent 
fiction  with  a  religions  feeling,  it  engenders  something 
worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as  it  were,  the  type  of  the 
highest  perfection  of  moral  and  intellectual  nature  im- 
pelled by  the  purest  and  the  truest  motives  to  the  best 
and  noblest  ends. 

Thiy  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountainous 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the  flowery  glades, 
and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming  trees,  which  are 
extended  in  ever-winding  labyrinths  upon  its  immense 
platforms  and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the  air.  The 
bright  blue  sky  of  Rome,  and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous 
awakening  of  spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the 
new  life  with  which  it  drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxi- 
cation, were  the  inspiration  of  this  drama. 

The  imagery  which  I  have  employed  will  be  found,  in 
many  instances,  to  have  been  drawn' from  the  operations 
of  the  human  mind,  or  from  those  external  actions  by 
which  they  are  expressed.  This  is  unusual  in  modern 
poetry,  although  Dante  and  Shakspeare  are  full  of  in- 
stances of  the  same  kind :  Dante  indeed  more  than  anv 
other  poet,  and  with  greater  success.  But  the  Greek 
poets,  as  writers  to  whom  no  resource  of  awakening  the 
sympathy  of  their  contemporaries  was  unknown,  were  in 
the  habitual  use  of  this  power;  and  it  is  the  study  of 
their  works  (since  a  higher  merit  would  probably  be 
denied  me)  to  which  I  am  willing  that  my  readers  should 
impute  this  singularity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candour  to  the  degree  in  which  the 
study  of  contemporary  writings  may  have  tinged  my 
composition,  for  such  has  been  a  topic  of  censure  witli 
regard  to  poems  far  more  popular,  and,  indeed,  more 
deservedly  popular  than  mine.  It  is  impossible  that  any 
one  who  inhabits  the  same  age  with  such  writers  as  those 
who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  our  own.  can  con- 
scientiously assure  himself  that  his  language  and  tone  of 
thought  may  not  have  been -modified  by  the  study  of  the 
productions  of  those  extraordinary  intellects.  It  is  true, 
that,  not  the  spirit  of  their  genius,'  but  the  forms  in  which 
it  has  manifested  itself,  are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities 
of  their  own  minds,  than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  moral 
and  intellectual  condition  of  the  minds  among  which  they 
have  been  produced.     Thus  a  number  of  writers  possess 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  329 

the  form,  whilst  they  want  the  spirit  of  those  whom,  it  is 
alleged,  they  imitate ;  because  the  former  is  the  endow- 
ment of  the  age  in  which  they  live,  and  the  latter  must 
be  the  uncommnnicated  lightning  of  their  own  mind. 

The  peculiar  style  of  intense  and  comprehensive  im- 
agery which  distinguishes  the  modern  literature  of  Eng- 
land, has  not  been  as  a  general  power,  the  product  of  the 
imitation  of  any  particular  writer.  The  mass  of  capa- 
bilities remains  at  every  period  materially  the  same; 
the  circumstances  which  "awaken  it  to  action  perpetually 
change.  If  England  were  divided  into  forty  republics, 
each  equal  in  population  and  extent  to  Athens,  there  is 
no  reason  to  suppose  but  that,  under  institutions  not  more 
perfect  than  those  of  Athens,  each  would  produce  philoso- 
phers and  poets  equal  to  those  who  (if  we  except  Shaks- 
peare)  have  never  been  surpassed.  We  owe  the  great 
writers  of  the  golden  age  of  our  literature  to  that  fervid 
awakening  of  the  public  mind  which  shook  to  dust  the 
oldest  and  most  oppressive  form  of  the  Christian  religion. 
We  owe  Milton  to  the  progress  and  development  of  the 
same  spirit:  the  sacred  Milton  was,  let  it  ever  be  remem- 
bered, a  republican,  and  a  bold  inquirer  into  morals  and 
religion.  The  great  writers  of  our  own  age  are,  we  have 
reason  to  suppose,  the  companions  and  forerunners  of 
some  unimagined  change  in  our  social  condition,  or  the 
opinions  which  cement  it.  The  cloud  of  mind  is  dis- 
charging its  collected  lightning,  and  the  equilibrium 
between  institutions  and  opinions  is  now  restoring,  or 
is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,  poetry  is  a  mimetic  art.  It  creates, 
but  it  creates  by  combination  and  representation.  Poet- 
ical abstractions  are  beautiful  and  new,  not  because  the 
portions  of  which  they  are  composed  had  no  previous 
existence  in  the  mind  of  man,  or  in  nature,  but  because 
the  whole  produced  by  their  combination  has  some  intel- 
ligible and  beautiful  analogy  with  those  sources  of  emo- 
tion and  thought,  and  with  the  contemporary  condition 
of  them:  one  great  poet  is  a  masterpiece  of  nature, 
which  another  not  only  ought  to  study,  but  must  study. 
He  might  as  wisely  and  as  easily  determine  that  his  mind 
should  no  longer  be  the  mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the 
visible  universe,  as  exclude  from  his  contemplation  the 
beautiful  which  exists  in  the  writings  of  a  great  contem- 
porary. The  pretense  of  doing  it  would  be  a  presump- 
tion in  any  but  the  greatest;  the  effect,  even  in  him, 
would  be  strained,  unnatural,  ami  ineffectual.  A  poet  is 
the  combined  product  of  such  internal  powers  as  modify 


880  PROMETHEUS    DNBOUND. 

the  nature  of  others;  and  of  such  external  influences  as 
excite  and  sustain  these  powers:  he  is  not  one,  but  both. 
Every  man's  mind  is,  in  fhis  respect,  modified  by  all  the 
objeota  of  oature  and  art;  by  every  word  and  every  sug- 
gestion which  he  ever  admitted  to  act  upon  his  conscious- 
ness; it  is  the  mirror  upon  which  all  forms  are  reflected, 
and  in  which  they  compose  one  form.  Poets,  not  other- 
ui-e  than  philosophers,  painters,  sculptors,  and  musicians, 
are.  in  one  sense,  the  creators,  and,  in  another,  the  crea- 
tions of  their  age.  From  this  subjection  the  loftiest  do 
not  escape.  There  is  a  similarity  between  Homer  and 
Besiod,  between  .Eschylus  and  Euripides,  between  Virgil 
and  Horace,  between  Dante  and  Petrarch,  between  Shaks- 
peare  and  Fletcher,  between  Dryden  and  Pope:  each  has 
a  generic  resemblance  under  which  their  specific  distinc- 
tions are  arranged.  If  this  similarity  be  the  result  of 
imitation,  I  am  willing  to  confess  that  I  have  imitated. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  acknowl- 
edging that  I  have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher  character- 
istically terms,  "a  passion  for  reforming  the  world:" 
what  passion  incited  him  to  write  and  publish  his  book, 
he  omits  to  explain.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  be 
damned  with  Plato  and  Lord  Bacon,  than  go  to  heaven 
with  Paley  and  Malthus.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  I  dedicate  my  poetical  compositions  solely  to  the 
direct  enforcement  of  reform,  or  that  I  consider  them  in 
any  degree  as  containing  a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory 
of  human  life.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence;  noth- 
ing can  be  equally  well  expressed  in  prose  that  is  not 
tedious  and  supei-erogatory  in  verse.  My  purpose  has 
hitherto  been  simply  to  familiarize  the  highly  refined 
imagination  of  the  more  select  classes  of  poetical  readers 
with  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral  excellence;  aware  that 
until  the  mind  cau  love,  and  admire,  and  trust,  and  hope, 
and  endure,  reasoned  principles  of  moral  conduct  are 
seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life,  which  the  uncon- 
scious passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although  they  would 
bear  the  harvest  of  his  happiness.  Should  I  live  to  ac- 
complish what  I  purpose,  that  is,  produce  a  systematical 
history  of  what  appear  to  me  to  be  the  genuine  elements 
of  human  society,  let  not  the  advocates  of  injustice  and 
fmperstition  flatter  themselves  that  I  should  take  iEschy- 
lus  rather  than  Plato  as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  unaffected  freedom 
will  need  little  apology  with  the  candid;  and  let  the 
uncandid  consider  that  they  injure  me  less  than  their 
own  hearts  and  minds  by  misrepresentation.     Whatever 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  331 

talents  a  person  may  possess  to  amuse  and  instruct  others, 
be  they  ever  so  inconsiderable,  he  is  yet  bound  to  exert 
them:  if  his  attempt  be  ineffectual,  let  the  punishment 
of  an  unaccomplished  purpose  have  been  sufficient;  let 
none  trouble  themselves  to  heap  the  dust  of  oblivion  upon 
his  efforts ;  the  pile  they  raise  will  betray  his  grave,  which 
mteht  otherwise  have  been  unknown. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Prometheus. 
Demogorgon. 

Jupiter. 

The  Earth. 

Ocean. 

Apollo. 

Mercury. 

Hercules. 


Asia,         ~\ 
Panthea,  >  Oeeani'Ies. 
Ione,  ) 

The  Phantasm  of  Jupiter. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Moon. 
Spirits  of  the  Hours. 
Spirits.  Echoes.  Fauns. 
Furies. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


ACT   I. 

Scene,  a  Ravine  of  Icy  Rocks  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 
Prometheus,  is  discovered  bound  to  the  Precipice.  Pan- 
thea  and  Ione  are  seated  at  his  feet.  Time,  Night. 
During  the  Scene,  Morning  slowly  breaks. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all  Spirits 
But    One,  who   throng   those   bright   and   rolling 

worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes  !  regard  this  Earth 
Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts, 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn, 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 
Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  solitude, 
Scorn  and  despair, — these  are  mine  empire. 
More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou  surveyest 
From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O,  Mighty  God! 
Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 
Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 
Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured  :  without  herb, 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah  me,  alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  forever ! 


334  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope !     Yet  I  endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains  felt  ? 
]  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?     The  Sea,  in  storm  or  calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread  below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony  ? 
Ah  me  !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  forever ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 
<)('  their  moon-freezing  crystals;  the  bright  chains 
Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My  heart ;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by, 
The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  dream, 
Mocking   me  :    and   the    Earthquake-fiends   are 

charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering  wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind : 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen  hail. 
And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night, 
Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar  frost  of  the  morn, 
Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The  leaden-coloured  east ;  for  then  they  lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 
— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluctant  victim — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the  blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample 

thee 
If  they  disdained  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 
Disdain  !     Ah  no  !     I  pity  thee.     What  ruin 
AYill   hunt   thee   undefended   through   the   wide 

Heaven  ! 
How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with  terror, 
Gape  like  a  hell  within !     I  speak  in  grief, 
Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 
As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.     The  curse 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  335 

Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.     Ye  Moun- 
tains, 
Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the  mist 
Of  cataracts,  flung  the  thunder  of  that  spell ! 
Ye  icy  Springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost, 
Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 
Shuddering  through  India !     Thou  serenest  Air, 
Through    which    the    Sun   walks    burning  without 

beams  ! 
And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 
Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed  abyss, 
As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made  rock 
The  orbed  world  !     If  then  my  words  had  power, 
Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 
Is  dead  within  ;  although  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now ! 
What  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye  all  heard  me  speak. 

first  voice  :  {from  the  mountains. ) 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 

O'er  the  Earthquake's  couch  we  stood : 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears, 

We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 

second  voice  :  {from  the  sj>rings. ) 
Thunderbolts  had  parched  our  water, 

We  had  been  stained  with  bitter  blood, 
And  had  run  mute,  'mid  shrieks  of  slaughter, 

Through  a  city  and  a  solitude. 

third  voice:  {from  the  air.) 
I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 

Its  wastes  in  colours  not  their  own  ; 
And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  groan. 

fourth  voice:  {from  the  whirlwinds.) 
We  had  soared  beneath  these  mountains 
Unresting  ages  ;  nor  had  thunder, 


336  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains, 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 

FI11ST    VOICE. 

But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 
And  heard,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  " 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

THIRD    VOICE. 

By  such  dread  words  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven  : 
When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

FOURTH    VOICE. 

And  we  shrank  back  :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence — thus — and  thus — 
Though  silence  is  as  hell  to  us. 

THE   EARTH. 

The  tongueless  Caverns  of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,  "  Misery  !  "  then  ;  the  hollow  Heaven  replied, 
"  Misery  !  "     And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing  winds, 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery  !  " 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  hear  a  sound  of  voices  :  not  the  voice 

Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and  thou 

Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring  will 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  337 

Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 

Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished,  like  thin  mist 

Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know  ye  not  me, 

The  Titan  ?     He  who  made  his  agony 

The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conquering  foe  ? 

Oh,  rock-embosomed  lawns,  and  snow-fed  streams, 

Now  seen  athwart  frore  vapours,  deep  below, 

Through  whose  o'ershadowing  woods  I  wandered 

once 
With  Asia  drinking  life  from  her  loved  eyes  ; 
Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye,  now 
To  commune  with  me  ?  me  alone,  who  checked, 
As  one  who  checks  a  fiend-drawn  charioteer, 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who  reigns 
Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining  slaves 
Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses : 
Why  answer  ye  not,  still  ?     Brethren  ! 

THE   EARTH. 

They  dare  not. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who  dares  ?  for  I  would  hear  that  curse  again. 

Ha  !  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 

'Tis  scarce  like  sound  :  it  tingles  through  the  frame 

As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 

Speak,  Spirit !  from  thine  inorganic  voice 

I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 

And  love.     How  cursed  I  him  ? 

THE   EARTH. 

How  canst  thou  hear, 
Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  V 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou  art  a  living  spirit ;  speak  as  they. 

THE   EARTH. 

I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  Heaven's  fell  King 

VOL.    I.  22 


338  PROMK'i  mi  S    UNBOUND. 

should  hear,  and  link  nn-  to  some  wheel  of  pain 

More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good  ;    and  though  the  Gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more  than  God 
Being  wise  and  kind:  earnestly  hearken  now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurely  through  my  brain,  like  shadows  dim 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick.    I  feel 
Faint  like  one  mingled  in  intwining  love ; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

THE   EARTH. 

No,  thou  canst  not  hear : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  what  art  thou, 
O  melancholy  Voice  ? 

THE    EARTH. 

I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother ;  she  within  whose  stony  veins. 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen  air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame, 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a  cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting  dust, 
And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  fierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which  burn  and  roll 
Around  us :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven ;  the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new  fire 
From  earthquake-rifted  mountains  of  bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's  frown ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  33'J 

Lightning  and  Inundation  vexed  the  plains  ; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities  ;  foodless  toads 
Within  voluptuous  chambers  panting  crawled  ; 
When  Plague  had  fallen  on  man,  and  beast,  and 

worm, 
And  Famine ;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and  tree  ; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow-grass, 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast  was  dry 
With   grief;    and   the    thin    air,  my  breath,  was 

stained 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer  ;  aye,  I  heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  rememberest  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams, 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and  yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead, 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope  those  dreadful  words, 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from  thee 
Some   comfort ;     flowers,    and    fruits,    and   happy 

sounds, 
And  love  though  fleeting ;  these  may  not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me  not. 

THE   EARTH. 

They  shall  be  told.     Ere  Babylon  was  dust, 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and  death  : 
One  that  which  thou  beholdest ;  but  the  other 
Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  inhabit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and  live 
Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no  more  ; 


840  PROMETHEUS    ( Mtoi'M*. 

Dreams  and  the  lighl  imaginings  of  men, 

And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires, 

Terrible,  strange,  sublime,  and  beauteous  shapes. 

Tliriv  thou  art.  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing  .shade, 

'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains;  all  the  gods 

Arc  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless  worlds, 

Vast,  sceptred  phantoms ;  heroes,  men,  and  beasts 

And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom ; 

And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 

Of  burning  gold.     Son,  one  of  these  shall  utter 

The  curse  which  all  remember.     Call  at  will 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 

Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  Gods 

From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  prostrate  sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant  shades, 

As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 
"My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear ! 

IONE. 

My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes : 
Yet  through  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds  ; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
O  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 

PANTHEA. 

The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground. 
Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains  cloven  ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  341 

The  shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 

To  stay  steps  proud,  o'er  the  slow  cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers  wrong. 

PHANTASM    OF   JUPITER. 

Why  have  the  secret  powers  of  this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom,  hither 
On  direst  storms  ?     What  unaccustomed  sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
With  which  our  pallid  race  hold  ghastly  talk 
In  darkness  ?     And,  proud  sufferer,  who  art  thou  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Tremendous  Image  !   as  thou  art  must  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am  his  foe, 
The  Titan.     Speak  the  words  which  I  would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty  voice. 

THE    EARTH. 

Listen  !     And  though  your  echoes  must  be  mute, 
Gray   mountains,    and    old   woods,    and    haunted 

springs, 
Prophetic  caves,  and  isle-surrounding  streams. 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  within  : 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA. 

See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty  looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 


He  speaks  !    O  shelter  me  ! 


342  PROMETUEU8    UNBOUND. 

PKOMETHEUS. 

I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  with  smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll :  yet  speak :  Oh,  speak  ! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend,  I  defy  thee  !  with  a  calm,  fixed  mind, 

All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee  do ; 
Foul  Tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  Human-kind, 

One  only  being  shalt  thou  not  subdue. 
Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 
Ghastly  disease,  and  frenzying  fear ; 
And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 
Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned  forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding  storms. 
Ay,  do  thy  worst.     Thou  art  omnipotent. 

O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee  power, 
And  my  own  will.     Be  thy  swift  mischiefs  sent 

To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  ethereal  tower 
Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 
In  darkness  over  those  I  love  : 
On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 
The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate ; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony, 
This  undeclining  head  while  thou  must  reign  on 
high. 
But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord :  O,  thou 
Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world  of  woe, 
To  whom  all  things  of  Earth  and  Heaven  do  bow 

In  fear  and  worship  :  all-prevailing  foe  ! 
I  curse  thee !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 
Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse ! 
Till  thine  Infinity  shall  be 
A  robe  of  envenomed  agony  ; 
And  thine  Omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain, 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dissolving 
brain. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  343 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  curse, 

111   deeds,   then  be   thou   damned,   beholding 
good; 
Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

And  thou,  and  thy  self-torturing  solitude. 
An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally. 
And  after  many  a  false  and  fruitless  crime, 
Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  through  boundless  space 
and  time. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Were  these  my  words,  O  Parent  ? 

THE   EARTH. 

The}'  were  thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It  doth  repent  me :  words  are  quick  and  vain ; 
Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

THE   EARTH. 

Misery,  Oh  misery  to  me, 
That  Jove  at  length  should  vanquish  thee. 
Wail,  howl  aloud,  Land  and  Sea, 
The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye. 
Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Your   refuge,    your   defence    lies   fallen    and 
vanquished. 

FIRST    ECHO. 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  ? 

SECOND    ECHO. 

Fallen  and  vanquished ! 


344  VKOMKTIIEUS    UNBOUND. 


Fear  not :  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see,  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill 
Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandalled  feet,  that  glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now, 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  Jove's  world-wandering  herald,  Mercury. 


And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 
And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 

Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 
Like  vapours  steaming  up  behind. 

Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd — 

PANTHEA. 

These  are  Jove's  tempest-walking  hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 

IONE. 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 

FIRST   FURY. 

Ha !  I  scent  life  ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  345 

SECOND    FURY. 

Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes ! 

THIRD    FURY. 

The  hope  of  torturing  him  smells  like  a  heap 
Of  corpses,  to  a  death-bird  after  battle. 

FIRST   FURY. 

Darest  thou  delay,  0  Herald  !  take  cheer,  Hounds 

Of  Hell :  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 

Should  make  us  food  and  sport — who  can  please 

long 
The  Omnipotent? 

MERCURY. 

Back  to  your  towers  of  iron, 
And  gnash  beside  the  streams  of  fire,  and  wail 
Your  foodless  teeth.     Geryon,  arise  !  and  Gorgon, 
Chimaera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of  fiends, 
Who  ministered  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate  : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Oh,  mercy  !  mercy  ! 
We  die  with  our  desire  :  drive  us  not  back  ! 

MERCURY. 

Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer; 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  Great  Father's  will  driven  down. 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas!  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can" do  no  more  :  aye  from  thy  sight 
Returning,  for  a  season,  Heaven  seems  hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day, 
Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm  and  good, 
But  vainly  wouldst  stand  forth  alone  in  strife 


346  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Against  the  Omnipotent;  as  yon  clear  lamps 
That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 
From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have  taught, 
And  long  must  teach.     Even   now  thy  Torturer 

arms 
With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined  pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in  Hell, 
And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here, 
Or  what  more  subtle,  foul,  or  savage  fiends 
People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their  task. 
Be  it  not  so !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  living  things,    - 
Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide  Heaven, 
The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme ; 
Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his  throne 
In  intercession  ;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer, 
And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous  fane, 
Let  the  will  kneel  within  thy  haughty  heart : 
For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 
The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Evil  minds 
Change  good  to  their  own  nature.     I  gave  all 
He  has  ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day ;  whether  the  Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony  night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  cling  round  my  hair : 
Whilst  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense  :  'tis  just : 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good ; 
And  for  a  world  bestowed,  or  a  friend  lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame ;  not  gratitude  : 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which  breaks 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost  know  I  cannot  try  ; 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 


PKOMETHEUS    UNBOUND  34  7 

The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity. 

Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword, 

Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he  accept, 

Or  could  I  yield  ?     Which  yet  I  will  not  yield. 

Let  others  flatter  Crime,  where  it  sits  throned 

In  brief  Omnipotence  ;  secure  are  they : 

For  Justice,  when  triumphant,  will  weep  down 

Pity,  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wrongs, 

Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.     I  wait, 

Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 

AVhich  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 

But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamour.     Fear  delay  ! 

Behold  !  Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's  frown. 

MERCURY. 

Oh,  that  we  might  be  spared :  I  to  inflict, 
And  thou  to  suffer !  once  more  answer  me  : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's  power  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

MERCURY. 

Alas! 
Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of  pain  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

They  last  while  Jove  must  reign  ;  nor  more,  nor 

less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

MERCURY. 

Yet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time, 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age, 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow  years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unreprieved  ? 


348  HROMKTITEUS    UNBOUND. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Perchance  no  thought  can  count  them,  yet  they 


MERCURY. 

If  thou  might'st  dwell  among  the  Gods  the  while, 
Lapped  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  would  not  quit 
This  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

MERCURY. 

Alas  !  I  wonder  at,  yet  pity  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pity  the  self-despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  whose  mind  sits  peace  serene, 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned :  how  vain  is  talk  ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

IQNE. 

O,  sister,  look  !     White  fire 
Has   cloven  to  the   roots   yon   huge  snow-loaded 

cedar ; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  behind  ! 

MERCURY. 

I  must  obey  his  words  and  thine  :  alas  ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 

PANTHEA. 

See  where  the  child  of  Heaven,  with  winged  feet, 
Runs  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  dawn. 

IONE. 

Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine  eyes 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die  :  they  come  :  they  come 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless  wings, 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 


rROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  349 

FIRST   FURY. 

Prometheus  ! 

SECOND    FURY. 

Immortal  Titan ! 

THIRD    FURY. 

Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes  is  here, 
Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.     Horrible  forms, 
What  and  who  are  ye  V     Never  yet  there  came 
Phantasms  so  foul  through  monster-teeming  Hell 
From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove ; 
Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 
Methinks  I  grow  like  what  I  contemplate, 
And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sympathy. 

FIRST   FURY. 

We  are  the  ministers  of  pain  and  fear, 
And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and  hate, 
And  clinging  crime  ;  and  as  lean  dogs  pursue 
Through  wood  and  lake  some  struck  and  sobbing 

fawn, 
We  track  all  things  that  weep,  and  bleed,  and  live, 
When  the  great  King  betrays  them  to  our  will. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh  !  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 
I  know  ye  ;  and  these  lakes  and  echoes  know 
The  darkness  and  the  clangour  of  your  wings. 
But  why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed  selves 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 

SECOND    FURY. 

We  knew  not  that :  Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity  ? 


4- 


850  PROMETHEUS    I  M'.orM>. 

SEOOSB   kuky. 
The  beauty  of  delight  makes  lovers  glad. 
GSCZtng  on  one  another:   BO  are  we. 
As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priestess  kneels 
To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 
The  aerial  crimson  falls,  flushing  her  cheek, 
So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 
The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us  round, 
Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  laugh  your  power,  and  his  who  sent  you  here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of  pain. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Thou  thinkest  we  will  rend  thee  bone  from  bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire  within  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine ; 
Ye  rend  me  now  :  I  care  not. 

SECOND   FURY. 

Dost  imagine 
We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  weigh  not  what  ye  do,  but  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  was  the  power  which  called 
You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  light. 

THIRD    FURY. 

Thou  think'st  we  will  live  through  thee,  one   by 

one, 
Like  animal  life,  and  though  we  can  obscure  not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  mil  dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath  thv  brain 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  351 

And  foul  desire  round  thine  astonished  heart, 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawling  like  agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why,  ye  are  thus  now ; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself,  and  rule 
The  torturing  and  conflicting  throngs  within, 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  mutinous. 

CHORUS   OF   FURIES. 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the 

earth, 
Where  the  night  has  its  grave  and  the  morning  its 
birth, 

Come,  come,  come ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your 

mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin  ;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track, 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless  wreck  ; 
Come,  come,  come  ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead  ; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning  : 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 
When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning  : 
Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense  enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer  :  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate, 
And  we  burthen  the  blasts  of  the  atmosphere, 
But  vainlv  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 


:\.ry2  PROMETHEUS    [INBOUND. 

IONE. 

Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

PANTHEA. 

These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air :  their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more   black  than 
night. 

FIRST   FURY. 

Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car, 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far ; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

SECOND   FURY. 

From  wide  cities,  famine- wasted  ; 

THIRD    FURY. 

Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted ; 

FOURTH    FURY. 

Kingly  conclaves,  stern  and  cold, 

Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold  ; 

FIFTH    FURY. 

From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which — 

A   FURY. 

Speak  not ;  whispei  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought ; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell- 

1TKY. 

Tear  the  veil ! 

ANOTHEK    FURY. 

It  is  torn. 


PROMETHEU8    UNBOUND.  „     353 

CHORUS. 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne. 
Dost  thou  faint,  mighty  Titan  !     We  laugh  thee  to 

scorn. 
Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou  waken'dst 

for  man ! 
Then  was  kindled  within  him  a  thirst  which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters ;  a  thirst  of  fierce  fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,which  consume  him  forever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth, 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth  : 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  !  where  round  the  wide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair  ! 
'Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled  : 
Look  again  !  the  flames  almost 

To  a  glow-worm's  lamp  have  dwindled  : 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 

J°y>  j°y>  i°y ! 

Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one  remembers ; 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present  is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless  head. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 
From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 
Grant  a  little  respite  now  : 
See  !  a  disenchanted  nation 
Springs  like  day  from  desolation  ; 
To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate  ; 
A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers, 
Whom  Love  calls  children — 
vol.  i.  23 


354  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

SKMICHOKUS   II. 

'Tis  another's. 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin  ! 
'Tis  the  vintage-time  for  death  and  sin. 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within  : 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and  tyrants 
win. 

[All  the  Fukies  vanish,  except  one. 

IONE. 

Hark,  sister  !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
Quite  unsuppressed  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland  caves. 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture  him  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Alas  !  I  looked  forth  twice,  but  will  no  more. 

IONE. 

What  didst  thou  see  ? 

PANTHEA. 

A  woful  sight :  a  youth 
With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 

IONE. 

What  next  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human  death, 
All  horrible,  and  wrought  by  human  hands, 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human  hearts, 
For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowns  and  smiles  : 
And  other  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and  live 
Were  wandering  by.     Let  us  not  tempt  worse 

fear 
By  looking  forth :  those  groans  are  grief  enough. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  305 

FURY. 

Behold  an  emblem :  those  who  do  endure 

Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn,  and  chains,  but 

heap 
Thousandfold  torment  on  themselves  and  him. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare ; 

Close    those   wan   lips :    let    that    thorn-wounded 

brow 
Stream  not  with  blood  ;  it  mingles  with  thy  tears  ! 
Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and  death, 
So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix, 
So  those  pale  fingers  play  not  with  thy  gore. 
O,  horrible  !     Thy  name  I  will  not  speak, 
It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 
The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the  just, 
Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to  thee, 
Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's  home, 
An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home, 
As  hooded  ounces  cling  to  the  driven  hind ; 
Some  linked  to  corpses  in  unwholesome  cells : 
Some — Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh  loud  V — 
Impaled  in  lingering  fire  :  and  mighty  realms 
Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles, 
Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common  blood 
By  the  red  light  of  their  own  burning  homes. 

FURY. 

Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire;  and  canst  hear 

groans : 
"Worse  things  unheard,  unseen,  remain  behind. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Worse  ? 

FURY. 

In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 
The  ravin  it  has  fjorsed  :  the  loftiest  fear 


3r.il  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were  true: 
Jlypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  outworn. 
They  dare  not  devise  good  for  man's  estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not  dare. 
The  good  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The    powerful    goodness    want:    worse    need    for 

them. 
The  wise  want  love ;    and  those  who  love  want 

wisdom ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  words  are  like  a  cloud  of  winged  snakes ; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not 

FURY. 

Thou  pitiest  them  ?     I  speak  no  more  !      [  Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah  woe ! 

Ah  woe  !     Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  forever ! 

I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 

Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumined  mind, 

Thou  subtle  tyrant !     Peace  is  in  the  grave. 

The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and  good : 

I  am  a  God  and  cannot  find  it  there, 

Nor  would  I  seek  it :  for,  though  dread  revenge, 

This  is  defeat,  fierce  king !  not  victory. 

The  sights  with  which  thou  torturest  gird  my  soul 

With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 

When  they  shall  be  no  types  of  things  which  are. 

PANTHEA. 

Alas !  what  sawest  thou  ? 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND.  357 

PROMETHEUS. 

There  are  two  woes : 
To  speak  and  to  behold ;  thou  spare  me  one. 
Names    are   there,  Nature's   sacred    watch-words, 

they 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry ; 
The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried  aloud, 
As  with  one  voice,  Truth,  liberty,  and  love ! 
Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 
Among  them :  there  was  strife,  deceit,  and  fear : 
Tyrants  rushed  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 

THE   EARTH. 

I  felt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mixed  joy 
As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy  state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits, 
Whose   homes   are   the    dim   caves    of   human 

thought, 
And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 
Its  world-surrounding  ether :  they  behold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future :  may  they  speak  comfort  to  thee  ! 

PAXTHEA. 

Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  gather, 

Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delightful  weather, 

Thronging  in  the  blue  air  ! 


And  see !  more  come, 
Like  fountain-vapours  when  the  winds  are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered  lines. 
And  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  ? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?     Is  it  the  waterfall  ? 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  something  sadder,  sweeter  far  than  all. 


PR0ME1  lli'.rs    UNBOUND. 
<  BOBUfi   <>i     M-IKITS. 

From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 

Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality  ! 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray, 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day, 
Travelled  o'er  by  dying  gleams: 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave, 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave : 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Through  the  boundless  element : 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee ! 

IONE. 

More  yet  come,  one  by  one :  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

FIRST   SPIRIT. 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 
Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne, 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry — 
Freedom  !  Hope  !  Death  !  Victory  ! 
Till  they  faded  through  the  sky ; 
And  one  sound  above,  around, 
One  sound  beneath,  around,  above, 
Was  moving  ;  'twas  the  soul  of  love  ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  359 

'Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

SECOND    SPIRIT. 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee, 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Between  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

THIRD   SPIRIT. 

I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 
And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 
Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 
When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 
To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 
And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 
Which  had  kindled  long  ago 
Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe ; 
And  the  world  awhile  below 
Wore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 
It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 
As  Desire's  lightning  feet : 
I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 
Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

FOURTH    SPIRIT. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 


3G0  PROMETHEUS    DKBOUND. 

Nor  Beeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

Bui  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  thai  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  (lawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  I  ices  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be  ; 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

Nurslings  of  immortality  ! 

One  of  these  awakened  me, 

And  I  sped  to  succour  thee. 

IONE. 

Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  east  and 

west 
Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest, 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air, 
On  swift  still  wings  glide  down  the  atmosphere  ? 
And,  hark  !  their  sweet  sad  voices  !  'tis  despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

PANTHEA. 

Canst  thou  speak,  sister  ?  all  my  words  are  drowned. 

IONE. 

Their  beauty  gives  me  voice.     See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skyey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

CHORUS   OF    SPIRITS. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

FIFTH    SPIRIT. 

As  over  wide  dominions 

J  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide 
air's  wildernesses; 

That  planet-crested  shape  swept  by  on  lightning- 
braided  pinions, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  361 

Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his  ambrosial 
tresses : 

His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I 
past  'twas  fading, 

And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind :  great  sages 
bound  in  madness. 

And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who  per- 
ished, unupbraiding, 

Gleamed  in  the  night.  I  wandered  o'er,  till  thou, 
O  King  of  sadness, 

Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected 
gladness. 

SIXTH    SPIRIT. 

Ah,  sister  !   Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing : 

It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air, 

But  treads  with  silent  footstep,  and  fans  with  silent 

wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best 

and  gentlest  bear ; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes 

above, 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  and  busy 

feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster, 

Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom 

now  we  greet. 

CHORUS. 

Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him,  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
"Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee, 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair, 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air  ; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 


362  PR0METHEU6    UNBOUND. 

I'l'.OMr.THKCS. 

Spirits  !   liow  know  ye  this  shall  be  V 

chorus. 

In  th<-  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms  flee, 

From  spring  gathering  up  beneath. 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder-brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow  : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 
Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 
To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

IONE. 

Where  are  the  Spirits  fled  ? 

PANTIIKA. 

Only  a  sense 
Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute, 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labyrinthine  soul, 
Like  echoes  through  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  fair  these  air-born  shapes !  and  yet  I  feel 
Most  vain  all  hope  biit  love ;  and  thou  art  far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 
All  things  are  still :   alas  !   how  heavily 
This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart ; 
Though  I  should  dream  I  could  even  sleep  with 

grief, 
If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  363 

The  saviour  and  the  strength  of  suffering  man, 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things : 
There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 

PA>"rtlEA. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 

The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 

The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love  :  thou  lovest. 

PAXTHEA. 

Deeply  in  truth ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks  white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine  ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  ether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  fade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Farewell ! 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Morning.     A  lonely  Vale  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 
Asia,  alone. 


From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast  descended : 
Yes,  like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which  makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes, 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 
Which  should  have  learnt  repose  :   thou  hast  de- 
scended 


364  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Cradled  in  tempests;  thou  dosi  wake,  0  Spring! 

()  child  of  many  winds  !     As  suddenly 

Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 

Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been  sweet; 

Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up 

As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden  clouds 

The  desert  of  our  life. 

This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour; 

At  -mi rise  thou  shouldst  come,  sweet  sister  mine, 

Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come  ! 

How  like  death-worms  the  wingless  moments  crawl ! 

The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 

Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 

Beyond  the  purple  mountains :  through  a  chasm 

Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 

Reflects  it ;  now  it  wanes ;  it  gleams  again 

As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 

Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air  : 

'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud-like  snow 

The  roseate  sunlight  quivers  :  hear  I  not 

The  iEolian  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 

Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

panthea  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that  fade  in 

tears, 
Like  stars  half-quenched  in  mists  of  silver  dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art  !  the  sphered  sun  had  climbed 
The  sea  ;  my  heart  was  sick  with  hope,  before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 

PANT-flEA. 

Pardon,  great  Sister !  but  my  wings  were  faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream, 
As  are  the  noon-tide  plumes  of  summer  winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to  sleep 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  365 

Peacefully,  and  awake  refreshed  and  calm 

Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall,  and  thy 

Unhappy  love,  had  made,  through  use  and  pity,     '• 

Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 

As  they  had  grown  to  thine :  erewhile  I  slept 

Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 

Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple  moss, 

Our  young  Ione's  soft  and  milky  arms 

Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark,  moist  hair, 

While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  pressed  within 

The  folded  depth  of  her  life-breathing  bosom  : 

But  not  as  now,  since  I  am  made  the  wind 

Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 

Of  thy  most  wordless  converse  ;  since  dissolved 

Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my  rest 

Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet ;  my  waking  hours 

Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 

ASIA. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes, 
And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

PABTHEA. 

As  I  have  said, 
With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  nrists,  condensing  at  our  voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy  flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our  linked  sleep. 
Then  two  dreams  came.     One,  I  remember  not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn  limbs 
Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his  voice  fell 
Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim  brain, 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy : 
"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the  world 
With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught  but  her, 
Whose  shadow  thou  art — lift  thine  eyes  on  me." 
I  lifted  them :  the  overpowering  light 


3<56  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed  o'er 

By  love  :   which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing  limbs, 

And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint  eyes, 

Steamed  idrth  like  vaporous  fire;  an  atmosphere 

Which  wrapped  me  in  its  all-dissolving  power, 

As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 

"Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wandering  dew. 

I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 

His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my  blood 

Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine 

And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed, 

And  like  the  vapours  when  the  sun  sinks  down 

Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines, 

And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 

My  being  was  condensed ;  and  as  the  rays 

Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could  hear 

His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered  ere  they  died 

Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody :  thy  name 

Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 

Of  what  might  be  articulate  :  though  still 

I  listened  through  the  night  when  sound  was  none. 

lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me : 

"  Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  me  to-night  ? 

I  always  kneAv  what  I  desired  before, 

Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 

But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek ; 

I  know  not ;  something  sweet,  since  it  is  sweet 

Even  to  desire ;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sister  : 

Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment  old, 

Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  I  slept 

And  mingled  it  with  thine  :  for  when  just  now 

We  kissed,  I  felt  within  thy  parted  lips 

The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me,  and  the  warmth 

Of  the  life-blood,  for  loss  of  which  I  faint, 

Quivered  between  our  intertwining  arms." 

I  answered  not,  for  the  Eastern  star  grew  pale, 

But  lied  to  thee. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  367 

ASIA. 

Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are  as  the  air :  I  feel  them  not :    Oh,  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written  soul ! 

PAJJTHEA. 

I  lift  them,  though  they  droop  beneath  the  load 
Of  that  they  would  express  :  what  canst  thou  see 
But  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there  ? 


Thine   eyes   are    like    the   deep,   blue,   boundless 

heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  fine  lashes ;  dark,  far,  measureless, 
Orb,  within  orb,  and  line  through  line  inwoven. 

PANTHEA. 

Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  passed  ? 

ASIA. 

There  is  a  change  ;  beyond  their  inmost  depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape :  'tis  He,  arrayed 
In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which  spread 
Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded  morn. 
Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 
Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet  again 
Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their  beams 
Shall  build  on  the  waste  world  ?     The  dream  is 

told.  ' 

What  shape  is  that  between  us  ?     Its  rude  hair 
Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 
Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  'tis  a  thing  of  air, 
For  through  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden  dew 
"Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not. 

DREAM. 

Follow !   Follow  ! 


368  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

i-a.nthka. 
It  is  mine  other  dream. 

ASIA. 

It  disappears. 

PANTHEA. 

It  passes  now  into  my  mind.     Methought 
As  we  sate  here,  the  flower-infolding  buds 
Burst  on  yon  lightning-blasted  almond-tree, 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wilderness 
A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth  with  frost : 
I  looked,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown  down  ; 
But  on  each  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the  blue-bells 
Of  Hyacinth,  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 

O,   FOLLOW,    FOLLOW  ! 


As  you  speak,  your  words 
Fill,  pause  by  pause,  my  own  forgotten  sleep 
With  shapes.    Methought  among  the  lawns  together 
We  wandered,  underneath  the  young  gray  dawn, 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  moun- 
tains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind ; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new-bladed  grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently ; 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember  not : 
B»  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds, 
Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was  written 
Follow,  O,  follow  !     As  they  vanished  by, 
And  on  each  herb,  from  which  heaven's  dew  had 

fallen, 
The  like  was  stamped,  as  with  a  withering  fire, 
A  wind  arose  among  the  pines  ;  it  shook 
The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs  and  then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghosts, 
Were  heard :  Oh,  follow,  follow,  follow  ml:  ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  369 

And  then  I  said,  "  Panthea,  look  on  me." 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 
Still  I  saw,  follow,  follow  ! 

ECHO. 

Follow,  follow ! 

PANTHEA. 

The   crags,  this   clear  spring  morning,  mock  our 

voices, 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

ASIA. 

It  is  some  being 
Around  the  crags.     What  fine  clear  sounds  !     0, 
list! 

echoes,  (unseen.) 

Echoes  we  :  listen  ! 

We  cannot  stay : 

As  dew-stars  glisten 

Then  fade  awav — 

Child  of  Ocean  ! 

ASIA. 

Hark  !  Spirits,  speak.     The  liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 

panthea. 

I  hear. 

ECHOES. 

O  follow,  follow, 

As  our  voice  recedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 

Where  the  forest  spreadeth  ; 

(More  distant.) 
O,  follow,  follow  ! 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew, 
vol.  i.  24 


.'{70  PR0ME1  mi  S    UNBOUND. 


Through  the  noon-tide  darkness  deep, 
By  the  odour-breathing  sleep 
Of  feint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves, 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mo<ks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean  T 


ASIA. 

Shall  we  pursue  the  sound  V     It  grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List !  the  strain  floats  nearer  now. 

ECHOES. 

In  the  world  unknown 
Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken  ; 
By  thy  step  alone 
Can  its  rest  be  broken  ; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 

ASIA. 

How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind '. 

ECHOES. 

O,  follow,  follow ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noon-tide  dew ; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains, 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulfs,  and  chasms. 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now ; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 


Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy  hand  in  mine 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  371 


SCENE    II. 

.A  Fmest,  Intermingled  with  Rocks  and  Caverns.  Asia  and 
Panthea  pass  into  it.  Two  young  Fauns  are  sitting  on 
a  Rock,  listening. 

SEMICHORUS   I.    OF    SPIRITS. 

The  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  past,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew, 
Is  curtained  out  from  Heavenis  wide  blue ; 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers, 
Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of  dew, 
Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze, 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 

Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew ; 
And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 
One  frail  and  fair  anemone  : 
Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 
That  climbs  and  wanders  through  steep  night, 
Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 
Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 
Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away. 
By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay, 
It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 
Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite : 
And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around ; 
And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

There  the  voluptuous  nightingales. 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noonday, 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails, 

And  through  the  windless  ivy-boughs, 

Sick  with  sweet  love,  droops  dying  away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom; 


372  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Another  from  the  swinging  blossom, 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 

Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 

The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute; 
When  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of*  wings,  and  rising  there 

Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute, 
Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 
So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 

SEMICHOKUS  I. 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music-tongued,  which  draw, 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law, 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe, 

All  spirits  on  that  secret  way  ; 

As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  Ocean 

Down  streams  made  strong  with  mountain-thaw ; 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound, 
And  wakes  the  destined,  soft  emotion 

Attracts,  impels  them ;  those  who  saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 
There  streams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 

Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while  they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 

The  sweet  desires  within  obey  : 

And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 
Until,  still  sweet  but  loud  and*  strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along, 
Sucked  up  and  hurrying  :  as  they  fleet 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 

And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 

Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

FIRST   FAUN. 

Canst  thou  imagine  where  those  spirits  live 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  o73 

Which  make  such  delicate  music  in  the  woods  ? 
We  haunt  within  the  least  frequented  caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these  wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  though  we  hear  them  oft : 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

SECOND   FAUN. 

'Tis  hard  to  tell : 
I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits  say, 
The  bubbles,  which  enchantment  of  the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers  that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools, 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and  float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noon-tide  kindles  through  the  woven  leaves ; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery  air, 
The  which  they  breathed  within  those  lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the  night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  headlong  speed, 
And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide  in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

FIRST   FAUN.     ' 

If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of  meadow  flowers,  or  folded  violets  deep, 
Or  on  their  dying  odours,  when  they  die, 
Or  on  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

SECOND    FAUN. 

Ay,  many  more  which  we  may  well  divine. 
But  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noon-tide  would  come, 
And  thwart  Silenus  find  his  goats  undrawn, 
And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely  songs 
Of  Fate,  and  Chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos  old, 
And  Love,  and  the  chained  Titan's  woful  doom. 
And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make  the  earth 
One  brotherhood :  delightful  strains  which  cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 


37  1  PR0METIIEU8    UNBOUND. 

SCENE   III. 
A  Pinnacle  of  Rock  among  Mountains.  Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

Hither  the  sound  has  borne  us — to  the  realm 

Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 

Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm, 

Whence  the  oracular  vapour  is  hurled  up 

Which  lonely  men  drink  wandering  in  their  youth, 

And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius,  or  joy, 

That   maddening  wine  of  life,  whose  dregs  they 

drain 
To  deep  intoxication  ;  and  uplift, 
Like  Maenads  who  cry  loud,  Evoe  !  Evoe  ! 
The  voice  which  is  contagion  to  the  world. 

ASIA. 

Fit  throne  for  such  a  Power  !  Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,  Earth  !  And  if  thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still, 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should  be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and  thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth  :  Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapour  dim  thy  brain  : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky, 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light, 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  "rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 
The  peak  whereon  we  stand,  midway,  around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests, 
Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined  eaves. 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist ; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains, 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  375 

From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up. 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water-drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  Cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast. 
Awful  as  silence.     Hark  !  the  rushing  snow ! 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche  !  whose  mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there 
Flake  after  rlake,  in  heaven-defying  minds 
As   thought   by  thought  is  piled,  till  some   great 

truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

PAXTHEA. 

Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet !  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the  moon 
Round  foodless  men  wrecked  on  some  oozy  isle. 

ASIA. 

The  fragments  of  the  cloud  are  scattered  up ; 
The  wind  that  lifts  them  disentwines  my  hair ; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes ;  my  brain 
Grows  dizzy ;  I  see  shapes  within  the  mist. 

PAXTHEA. 

A   countenance    with   beckoning   smiles :   there 

burns 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks ! 
Another  and  another :  hark  !  they  speak  ! 

SOXG   OF    SPIRITS. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down ! 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life ; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 


87»;  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Of  things  which  sci-iii  and  arc, 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 
Down,  down  ! 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down  ! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapour, 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper ; 
Death,  despair ;  love,  sorrow  ; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow ; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 

Down,  down  ! 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down  ! 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given, 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down !  . 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

Down,  down ! 
Like  veiled  lightning  asleep, 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines. 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 

Down,  down ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee  ; 

Down,  down  ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee  ; 
Resist  not  the  weakness, 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  377 

That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 

Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 
The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath  his 
throne 

By  that  alone. 


SCENE    IV. 
TJte  Cave  of  Demogorgon.    Asia  and  Panthea. 

PAXTHEA. 

What  veiled  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  ? 

ASIA. 

The  veil  has  fallen. 

PANTHEA. 

I  see  a  mighty  darkness 
Filling  the  seat  of  power  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  upon  and  shapeless ;  neither  limb, 
Nor  form,  nor  outline  ;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  spirit. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ask  what  thou  wouldst  know. 

ASIA. 

What  canst  thou  tell  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All  things  thou  dar'st  demand. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  the  living  world  ? 

demogorgon. 

God. 


37.S  PROMETHEU8    ONBOUND. 


Who  made  all 
That  il  contains  ?  thought,  passion,  reason,  will, 


Imagination  ? 


DEMOGORGON. 

God  :  Almighty  God. 


Who  made  that  sense  which,  when  the  winds  of 

spring- 
In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 
Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone, 
Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which  dim 
The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers, 
And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 
When  it  returns  no  more  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

Merciful  God. 


And  who  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  remorse, 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  things, 
To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 
Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 
Under  the  load  towards  the  pit  of  death ; 
Abandoned  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to  hate  ; 
And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than  blood  ; 
Pain,  whose  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 
Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after  day ; 
And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

He  reigns. 


ASIA. 

Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining  in  pain 

Asks  but  his  name :  curses  shall  drair  him  down. 


He  reijnis. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  379 

DEMOGORGON. 


ASIA. 

I  feel,  I  know  it :  who  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

He  reigns. 


"Who  reigns  ?     There  was  the  Heaven  and  Earth 

at  first, 
And  Light  and  Love ;  then   Saturn,  from  whose 

throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow :  such  the  state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his  sway, 
As  the  calm  joy  of  flowers  and  living  leaves 
Before  the  wind  or  sun  has  withered  them 
And  semi-vital  worms  ;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge,  power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the  thought 
"Which  pierces  this  dim  universe  like  light, 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love ; 
For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.    Then  Prometheus 
GaAe  wisdom,  which  is  strength,  to  Jupiter, 
And  with  this  la\v  alone,  ;'  Let  man  be  free," 
Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide  heaven. 
To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law ;  to  be 
Omnipotent  but  friendless  is  to  reign ; 
And  Jove  now  reigned ;  for  on  the  race  of  man 
First  famine,  and  then  toil,  and  then  disease, 
Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen  before, 
Fell ;  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove, 
With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire, 
Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain  caves : 
And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he  sent, 
And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 
Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war, 
So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  the}'  raged. 


380  PROMETHEUS    [INBOUND. 

Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned  hopes 

Which  sleep  within  folded  Elysiai)  flowers. 

Nepenthe,  Moly,  Amaranth,  fadeless  blooms, 
That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rainbow  wings 
Hie  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent  to  bind 
The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 
Which  hears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human  heart; 
And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast  of  prey, 
Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 
The  frown  of  man  ;  and  tortured  to  his  will 
Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of  power, 
And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest  forms 
Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the  waves. 
He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created  thought, 
Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe ; 
And    Science   struck   the   thrones    of    earth    and 

heaven, 
Which  shook,  but  fell  not ;    and  the  harmonious 

mind 
Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song ; 
And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 
Until  it  walked,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 
Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet  sound ; 
And  human  hands  first  mimicked  and  then  mocked, 
With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its  own, 
The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine, 
And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men  see 
Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 
He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and  springs. 
And  Disease  drank  and  slept.     Death  grew  like 

sleep. 
He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 
Of  the  wide-wandering  stars;  and  how  the  sun 
Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 
The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her  broad 

eye 
Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea : 
He  taught  to  rule,  as  life  directs  the  limbs, 
The  tempest- winged  chariots  of  the  Ocean, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  381 

And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities  then 
Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like  columns 

ilowed 
The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  ether  shone, 
And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were  seen. 
Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 
Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he  hangs 
Withering  in  destined  pain  :  but  who  rains  down 
Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  while 
Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  God 
And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 
The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of  earth, 
The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone  ? 
Not  Jove :  while  yet  his  frown  shook  heaven,  aye, 

when 
His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 
Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave.     Declare 
Who  is  his  master  ?     Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All  spirits  are  enslaved  which  serve  things  evil : 
Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 

ASIA. 

Whom  calledst  thou  God  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

I  spoke  but  as  ye  speak, 
For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

ASIA. 

Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

If  the  abysm 

Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets.     But  a  voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless ; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving  world  ?     What  to  bid  speak 


382  PROMETHKtJS    [TNBOUND. 

Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change?     To 

these. 

All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 

ASIA. 

So  much  I  asked  before,  and  my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given  ;  and  of  such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand ;  and  do  thou  answer  me 
As  my  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 
That  Avhich  I  ask.     Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world  : 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive  ? 

DEMOGOKGON. 

Behold ! 

ASIA. 

The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.    Their  bright 

locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair :  they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

DEMOGORGON. 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits  for  thee. 


A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 
Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  the  craggy  gulf. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  383 

Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer, 
Who  art  thou  ?     Whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me  ? 
Speak  ! 


I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 
More  dread  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon  planet 
Has  set,  the  darkness  which  ascends  with  me 
Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless  throne. 

ASIA. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

PANTHEA. 

That  terrible  shadow  floats 
Up  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo  !  it  ascends  the  car ;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified :  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus  I  am  answered :  strange 

PAXTHEA. 

See,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays ; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire, 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculptured  rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery  ;  the  young  spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dove-like  eyes  oi*  hope  ; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !   as  light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless  air. 


My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning. 

They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 
And  when  the  red  morning  is  bright'ning 

They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam ; 

They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I  deem, 
Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


384  PBOMBl  ill  is    UNBOUND 

I  desire  :  and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle; 
I  fear:  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon  ; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon  : 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labours  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


SCENE  v. 

The  Car  pauses  within  a  Cloud  on  the  Top  of  a  snowy  Mountain. 

Asia,  Panthea,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

spirit. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire  ; 

But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire  : 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire  ! 

ASIA. 

Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils,  but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 

SPIRIT. 

Alas !  it  could  not. 

PANTHEA. 

Oh  spirit !  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the  light 
Which  fills  the  cloud  ?  the  sun  is  yet  unrisen. 

SPIRIT. 

The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder ;  and  the  light 
Which  fills  this  vapour,  as  the  aerial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water, 
Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  385 

Yes,  I  feel— 


PAXTHEA. 


ASIA. 

What  is  it  -with  thee,  sister  ?     Thou  art  pale. 


How  thou  art  changed  !     I  dare  not  look  on  thee ; 

I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 

The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good  change 

Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids  tell 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 

Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 

Among  the  Egean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  bear  thy  name  ;  love,  like  the  atmosphere 

Of  the  sun's  fire  filling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and  heaven 

And  the  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came  : 

Such  art  thou  now ;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one, 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy. 

Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which  speak  the 

love 
Of  all  articulate  beings  ?     Feelest  thou  not 
The  inanimate  winds  enamoured  of  thee  ?     List ! 

[Music. 


Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  but  his 
Whose  echoes  they  are  :  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God : 


B86  PROMETHEUS    DNBOUND. 

They  who  inspire  it  1 1 1 o- 1  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

PAMTHEA. 

List !     Spirits,  speak. 

voice  (in  the  air,  singing). 
Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire  ;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others ;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  forever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 


My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 


PROMETHEUS    l.'NIJoLND.  88l 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  the  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever, 

Upon  that  many-winding  river, 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound. 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  music's  most  serene  dominions  ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But,  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven  ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  on  the  waves  doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves, 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And  rest,  having  beheld  ;  somewhat  like  thee  ; 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously  ! 


3KH  PfcOMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


ACT   III. 

Scene  I. — Heaven.    Jupiter  on  his  Throne ;  Thetis  and 
the  other  Deities  assembled. 

JUPITER. 

Ye  congregated  powers  of  heaven,  who  share 

The  glory  and  the  strength  of  him  ye  serve, 

Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 

All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me ;  alone 

The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire, 

Yet  burns  towards  heaven  with  fierce  reproach, 

and  doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer, 
Hurling  up  insurrection,  which  might  make 
Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear ; 
And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendulous  air, 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by  flake, 
And  cling  to  it ;  though  under  my  wrath's  night 
It  climb  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step, 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  unsandalled  feet, 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery, 
Aspiring,  unrepressed,  yet  soon  to  fall : 
Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  wonder, 
That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth, 
Who  waits  but  till  the  destined  hour  arrive, 
Bearing  from  Demogorgon's  vacant  throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbeheld, 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idasan  Ganymede, 
And  let  it  fill  the  Daedal  cups  like  fire, 
And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine, 
Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise, 
As  dew  from  earth  under  the  twilight  stars : 


PROMETHEUS    UNROUND.  389 

Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your  veins 
The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 
Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 
Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with  me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity  ! 
When  thou  didst  cry,  "  Insufferable  might  ! 
God  !   Spare  me  !    I  sustain  not  the  quick  flames, 
The  penetrating  presence  ;  all  my  being. 
Like  him  whom  the  Xumidian  seps  did  thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved, 
Sinking  through  its  foundations  :  "  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling  made  a  third 
Mightier  than  either,  which,  unbodied  now, 
Between  us  floats,  felt,  although  unbeheld, 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds  ?)  from  Demogorgon's  throne. 
Victory  !  victory  !    Feelest  thou  not,  O  world  ! 
The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thundering  up 
Olympus  '? 

The  Car  of  the  Hour  arrives.     Dejiogorgox  descends 

and  moves  towards  the  Throne  of  Jupiter. 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ?     Speak  ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Eternity.     Demand  no  direr  name. 

Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss. 

I  am  thy  child,  as  thou  wert  Saturn's  child  ; 

Mightier  than  thee  :  and  we  must  dwell  together 

Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  lightnings  not. 

The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 

Or  reassume,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee  : 

Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  'tis  the  destiny 

Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are  dead, 

Put  forth  thv  might. 


3!iU  PR0METIIEU8    UNBOUND.- 

.11  rtii.i:. 

Detested  prodigy  ! 
Even  thus  beneath  the  deep  Titanian  prisons 
I  trample  thee  !     Thou  lingerest  ? 

Mercy  !  mercy ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !    Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my  judge, 
Even  where  he  hangs,  seared  by  my  long  revenge, 
On  Caucasus  !  he  would  not  doom  mo  thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,  and  dreadless,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?    What  then  art  thou  V 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  with  me  then. 
We  two  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of  ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight, 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless  void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me, 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and  the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai!    Ai! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  forever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory  !     Ai !  Ai ! 


SCENE    II. 

The  MbutJi  of  a  great  River  in  the  Island  Atlantis.  Ocean 
is  discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore;  Apollo  stands 
beside  him. 


He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conqueror's  frown 

APOLLO. 

Ay,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made  dim 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  391 

The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 

The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 

"With  sanguine  light,  through  the  thick  ragged  skirts 

Of  the  victorious  darkness,  a-  he  fell  : 

Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agon  v. 

"Which,  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds, 

Burns  far  along  the  tempest-Avrinkled  deep. 

OCEAN. 

lie  sunk  to  the  abyss  ?     To  the  dark  void  ? 

APOLLO. 

An  eagle  so  caught  in  some  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes 
Which  gazed  on  the  undazzling  sun,  now  blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  ponderous  hail 
Beats  on  his  straggling  form,  which  sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 

OCEAN. 

Henceforth  the  fields  of  Heaven-reflecting  sea 
"Which  are  my  realm,  will  heave,  unstained  with 

blood, 
Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains  of  corn 
Swayed  by  the  summer  air;  my  streams  will  flow 
Round  many  peopled  continents,  and  round 
Fortunate  isles  ;  and  from  their  glassy  thrones 
Blue  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light  laden  moon 
"With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's  crest, 
Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  ebbing  sea ; 
Tracking  their  path  no  more  by  blood  and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of  slavery  and  command ;  but  by  the  light 
Of  wave-reflected  flowers,  and  floating  odours, 
And  music  soft,  and  mild,  free,  gentle  voices, 
That  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 


302  PBOMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

APOLLO. 

And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which  make 
Hy  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide  ;  but  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young  Spirit 
That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

OCEAN. 

Thou  must  away ; 
Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when  farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now  to  feed  it 
With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 
Which  stand  forever  full  beside  my  throne. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea, 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind-like  stream. 
Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  streaming  hair 
With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower  crowns, 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

[A  sound  of  tcaves  is  heard. 
It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 
Peace,  monster;  I  come  now.     Farewell. 


Farewell. 


SCENE    III. 


Caucasus.  Prometheus,  Hercules,  Ione,  the  Earth, 
Spirits,  Asia,  and  Panthea,  borne  in  the  Car  with  the 
Spirit  of  the  Hour. 


Hercules  unbinds  Prometheus,  who  descends. 

HERCULES. 

Most  glorious  among  spirits  !  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,  and  long-suffering  love, 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 


L 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  393 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  gentle  words 
Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  desired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld ;  and  ye, 
Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and  care  ; 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.     There  is  a  cave, 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears, 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light  : 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air. 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  birds, 
And  bees ;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats, 
And   the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  soft 

grass; 
A  simple  dwelling,  which  shall  be  our  own  ; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change, 
As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged. 
What  can  hide  man  from  mutability  ? 
And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile ;  and  thou, 
lone,  shall  chaunt  fragments  of  sea-music, 
Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 
The  tears  she  brought,  which  yet  were  sweet  to 

shed. 
We  will  entangle  buds  and  flowers  and  beams 
Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and  make 
Strange  combinations  out  of  common  things, 
Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence ; 
And  we  will  search  with  looks  and  words  of  love, 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last, 
Our  unexhausted  spirits;  and  like  lutes 
Touched  by  the  skill  of  the  enamoured  wind, 
Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 


301  PROME1  HBU8    UNBOUND. 

From  difference  Bweei  where  discord  cannot  be; 

And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed  winds, 

Which  meet  from  all  ihe  points  of  heaven,  as  bees 

From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 

At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 

The  echoes  of  the  human  world,  which  tell 

Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard, 

And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain,  and  music, 

!  I  self  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 

That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now  free ; 

And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 

Then  radiant,  as  the  mind,  arising  bright 

From  the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence  the  forms 

Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  casts  on  them 

The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality, 

Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 

Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 

And  arts,  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 

The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows  these 

Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 

Of  that  best  worship,  love,  by  him  and  us 

Given    and   returned;    swift    shapes   and   sounds, 

which  grow 
More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and  kind, 
And  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall: 
Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 

[  Turning  to  ihe  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 
For  thee  fair  Spirit,  one  toil  remains.     lone, 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus  old 
Made  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  breathing  within  it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplished,  and  which  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 

IONE. 

Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  the  mystic  shell ; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  lulled  music  sleeping  there  ? 


rJJOMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  395 


It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest  shell  of  Ocean : 

Its  sound  must  be  at  once  both  sweet  and  strange. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 

On  whirlwind-footed  coursers  :  once  again 

Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbed  world ; 

And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air, 

Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 

Loosening  its  mighty  music  :  it  shall  be 

As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes  :  then 

Return  :  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our  cave. 

And  thou.  O  Mother  Earth  !— 

THE^EARTH. 

I  hear,  I  feel ; 
Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves ;  'tis  life,  'tis  joy, 
And,  through  my  withered,  old,  and  icy  frame 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms  :  all  plants. 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow- winged, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human  shapes, 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my  wan  bosom, 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment ;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam.  snow-white,  and  swift  as  wind, 
Nursed  among  lilies  near  a  brimming  stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  iny  sunless  sleep  shall  float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm  :  night-folded  flowers 
Shall  suck  unwithering  hues  in  their  repose  : 
And  men  and  beasts  in  happy  dreams  shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day.  and  all  its  joy  : 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of  her 


896  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mother, 
folding  her  child,  says,  "Leave  me  not  again." 

ASIA. 

Oh,  mother !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of  death  ? 
Cease  they  to  love,  and  move,  and  breathe,  and 

speak, 
Who  die  ? 

THE    EARTH. 

It  would  avail  not  to  reply  : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncommunieating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted :  and  meanwhile 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
With  rainbow-skirted  showers,  and  odorous  winds, 
And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull  night, 
And  the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen  sun's 
All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence  mild, 
Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields,  aye,  even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep, 
With  ever-living  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
And  thou  !     There  is  a  cavern  w^here  my  spirit 
Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy  pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  that  did  inhale  it 
Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there, 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war, 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with  thee ; 
Which  breath  now  rises  as  amongst  tall  weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods  around ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent  vine, 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild. 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odour-faded  blooms 
Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  coloured  light, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  397 

As   they  rain    through   them,  and   bright   golden 

globes 
Of  fruit,  suspended  in  their  own  green  heaven, 
And  through  their  veined  leaves  and  amber  stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid  bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew, 
The  drink  of  spirits  :  and  it  circles  round, 
Like  the  soft  waving  wings  of  noonday  dreams, 
Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like  mine, 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave  is  thine. 
Arise  !    Appear ! 

[A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  of  a  winged  child. 
This  is  my  torch-bearer ; 
"Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with  gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.    Run,  wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 
Of  Bacchic,  Nysa,  Maenad-haunted  mountain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers, 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy  lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying, 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 
Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 
Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  architrave, 
And  palm-like  capital,  and  over-wrought, 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
Thy  name,  Prometheus ;   there  the  emulous  youths 
Bore  to  thy  honour  through  the  divine  gloom 
The  lamp  which  was  thine  emblem ;  even  as  those 
Who  bare  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life, 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  far  goal  of  Time.     Depart,  farewell. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


698  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


SCENE    IV. 

A  Forest.    In  the  Background  a  Cavi .    Prometheus,  Asia, 
Pamthea,  Lore,  and  the  Spirit  op  the  Earth. 

I  ONE. 

Sister,  it  is  not  earthly  :  how  it  glided 
Under  the  leaves  !  how  on  its  head  there  burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  Avhose  emerald  beams 
Are  twined  with  its  lair  hair!    how,  as  it  moves, 
The  splendour  drops  in  flakes  upon  the  grass  ! 
Knowest  thou  it  ? 

I'AXTHEA. 

It  is  the  delicate  spirit 
That  guides  the  earth  through  heaven.     From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets  ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men  sleep, 
Or  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the  rivers, 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as  now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.     Before  Jove  reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  eyes,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told  her 
All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  it  saw  much, 
Yet  idly  reasoned  what  it  saw ;  and  called  her, 
For  whence  it  sprung  it  knew  not,  nor  do  I, 
Mother,  dear  mother. 

THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   EARTH    (running   tO  ASIA). 

Mother,  dearest  mother ; 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  I  was  wont  ? 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  399 

After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of  joy  ? 
May  I  then  play  beside  thee  the  long  noons, 
When  work  is  none  in  the  bright  silent  air  ? 

ASIA. 

I  love  thee,  gentlest  being  !  and  henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee  unenvied.     Speak,  I  pray : 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,  now  delights. 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   EARTH. 

Mother,  I  am  grown  wiser,  though  a  child 
Cannot  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day ; 
And  happier  too  ;  happier  and  wiser  both. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and  loathly 

worms, 
And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and  boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were  ever 
A  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green  world  : 
And  that,  among  the  haunts  of  humankind, 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry  looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false  and  hollow  smiles,  ' 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such  foul  masks,  with  which  ill  thoughts 
Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call  man ; 
And  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil, 
(Though   fair,   even  in  a  world  where   thou   art 

fair, 
When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like  thee,) 
When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at  heart 
To  pass  them,  though  they  slept,  and  I  unseen. 
Well,  my  path  lately  lay  "through  a  great  city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it : 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate  : 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud,  it  shook 
The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more  sweet 
Than  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all ; 
A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end : 
And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 
Out  of  their  rest,  and  gathered  in  the  streets, 


400  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while  yei 
The,  music  pealed  along.     I  hid  myself 
Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square, 

Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 

Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leaves;  and  soon 

Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 

Of  which  1  spoke  as  having  wrought  me  pain, 

Past  floating  through  the  air,  and  fading  still 

Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them;  and  those 

From   whom  they  past   seemed  mild   and   lovely 

forms 
After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and  all 
Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief  surprise 
And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 
Went  to  their  sleep  again  :  and  when  the  dawn 
Came,  wouldst  thou  think  that  toads,  and  snakes, 

and  efts, 
Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were, 
And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or  hue  : 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off: 
I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  nightshade  twined, 
I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 
And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries, 
With  quick  long  beaks,    and   in   the  deep  there 

lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky ; 
So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy  changes, 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 


And  never  will  we  part,  till  thy  chaste  sister, 
AVho  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant  moon, 
Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and  equal  light 
Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April  snow, 
And  love  thee. 

SPIRIT    OF   THE    KAKTH. 

What !  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus  ? 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  401 

ASIA. 

Peace,  wanton  !  thou  art  yet  not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
AVith  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ? 

SPIRIT   OF   THE   EARTH. 

Nay,  mother,  while  my  sister  trims  her  lamp 
'Tis  hard  I  should  so  darkling. 


Listen ;  look ! 
The  Spirit  of  the  Hour  enters. 

PROMETHEUS. 

We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen  :  yet  speak. 

SPIRIT   OF   THE   HOUR. 

Soon  as  the  sound  had  ceased  whose  thunder  filled 
The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth, 
There  was  a  change  :  the  impalpable  thin  air 
And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  transformed, 
As  if  the  sense  of  love,  dissolved  in  them, 
Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered  world. 
My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 
Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  : 
Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down, 
Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  languid  plumes, 
My  coursers  sought  their  birth-place  in  the  sun, 
Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt  from  toil, 
Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire. 
And  where  my  moonlike  car  will  stand  within 
A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 
Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and  me, 
And  you  fair  nymphs,  looking  the  love  we  feel ; 
In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne ; 
Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven  flowers, 
Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent  stone, 


402  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

And  open  to  the  blight  and  liquid  sky. 

Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbsenic  snake 

The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will  mock 

The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose.      Alas, 

Whither  has  wandered  now  my  partial  tongue 

Winn  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would  hear? 

As  I  have  said,  I  floated  to  the  earth : 

It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 

To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be ;  I  wandering  went 

Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  mankind, 

And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 

Such  mighty  change,  as  I  had  felt  within, 

Expressed  in  outward  things ;  but  soon  I  looked, 

And   behold,    thrones   were   kingless,   and   men 

walked 
One  Avith  the  other  even  as  spirits  do, 
None  fawned,  none    trampled ;    hate,   disdain,  or 

fear, 
Self-love  or  self-contempt,  on  human  brows 
No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 
"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ; " 
None  frown'd,  none  trembled,  none  with  eager  fear 
Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 
Until  the  subject  of  a  tyrant's  will 
Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own, 
Which   spurred  him,  like    an   outspent   horse,  to 

death. 
None  wrought  his  lips  in  truth-entangling  lines 
Which  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdained  to  speak  ; 
None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own  heart 
The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  remained 
Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed, 
And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among  men, 
Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 
None  talked  that  common,  false,  cold,  hollow  talk 
Which  makes  the  heart  deny  the  yes  it  breathes, 
Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 
With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 
And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and  kind 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  403 

As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh  light  and  dew 
On  the  wide  earth,  past ;  gentle  radiant  forms, 
From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure  ; 
Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not  think, 
Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to  feel, 
And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared  not  be, 
Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven  ;  nor  pride, 
Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill-shame, 
The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured  gall, 
Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe,  love. 

Thrones,    altars,    judgment    seats,    and    prisons; 

wherein, 
And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were  borne 
Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and  tomes 
Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignorance, 
Were  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric  shapes, 
The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remembered  fame, 
Which  from  their  unworn  obelisks,  look  forth 
In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 
Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors :  mouldering 

round 
Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and  priests, 
A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 
As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 
But  an  astonishment ;  even  so  the  tools 
And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity, 
Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth, 
Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded  now. 
And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorred  by  god  and  man 
Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a  form, 
Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark,  and  execrable, 
Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world  ; 
And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken,  served 
With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long  hope,  and 

love 
Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garlandless, 
And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears, 
Flattering  the  thing  they  feared,  which  fear  was 

hate, 


404  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Frown,   mouldering    fast,    o'er    their    abandoned 

shrines  : 
The  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were,  called  life, 
Which  mimick'd,  as  with  colours  idly  spread, 
All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn  aside  ; 
The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man  remains 
Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 
Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless, 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise  :  but  man 
Passionless;  no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or  pain. 
"Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered  them, 
Nor  yet  exempt,  though  ruling  them  like  slaves, 
From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability. 
The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  oversoar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 


ACT    IV. 


Scene, — Apart  of  the  Forest  near  the  Cave  of  Prome- 
theus. Panthea  and  Ione  are  sleeping :  they  awaken 
gradually  during  the  Jirst  Song. 

voice  of  unseen  spirits. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd 
To  their  folds  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard, 
But  where  are  ye  ? 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  405 

A  Traiii  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  by  confusedly 
singing. 

Here,  oh !  here  : 

We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year ! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be, 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh !  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased, 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  away, 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony ! 

IONE. 

What  dark  forms  were  they  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

IONE. 

Have  they  past  ? 


406  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


They  have  past ; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast, 
While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled : 

IONE. 

Whither,  oh!  whither V 

PANTHEA. 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

VOICE   OF   UNSEEN    SPIRITS. 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  are  gathered  and  driven 
By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of  glee  ! 
They  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness, 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging, 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and  from  sea ; 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness, 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

IONE. 

What  charioteers  are  these  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

SEMICHORUS   OF   HOURS. 

The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of  Earth 
Have  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain  of  sleep, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  407 

Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened  our  birth 
In  the  deep. 

A  VOICE. 

In  the  deep  ? 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Oh !  below  the  deep. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

A  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 
Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother  slept, 
Found  the  truth — 

semichorus  n. 
Worse  than  his  visions  were  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep ; 
We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in  dreams, 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and  leap — 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams  ! 


Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze. 

Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 
Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 

To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding  deer, 

And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  year. 

But  now,  oh !  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music,  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light, 


408  PBOMETHEU8    UNBOUND. 

Let    the    Hours,    and    the    spirits    of    might   and 
pleasure, 
Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite. 

A   VOICE. 

Unite. 


See,  where  the  Spirits  of  the  human  mind 
Wrapt  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils,  approach. 

CHORUS   OF  SPIRITS. 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  the  song, 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along ; 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep, 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds  half-asleep. 

CHORUS   OF   HOURS. 

Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet, 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet, 
And  your  wings  are  soft  and  swift  as  thought, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled  not  ? 

CHORUS   OF   SPIRITS. 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human  kind, 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and  blind ; 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces ; 

From  those  skyey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  409 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  woven  caresses, 
"Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses  ; 

From  the  azure  isles, 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  syren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy  ; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  Daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 

Through  blood,  and  tears, 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes,  and  fears  ; 

We  waded  and  flew, 

And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness  grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm, 

Are  sandalled  with  calm, 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of  balm  ; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies, 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

CHORUS   OF    SPIRITS   AXD   HOURS. 

Then  weave  the  web  of  the  mystic  measure ; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends  of  the 
earth, 

Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of  pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth, 

As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush  by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendour  and  harmony  ! 

CHORUS   OF   SPIRITS. 

Our  spoil  is  won, 
Our  task  is  done, 


410  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run  ; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound 
Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize : 

Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 

From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might. 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery  flight ; 

And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the  Promethean. 


CHORUS   OF   HOUKS. 

lance,  and  scatter 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 


Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song  ; 


SEMICHORUS   I. 

We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along  : 

SEMICHORUS  n. 

Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain  : 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 

With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth  and  sea, 

And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never  be. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  411 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright, 
Leading  the  Day,  and  outspeeding  the  Night, 
With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect  light. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

AVe  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gathering  sphere, 
Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds  appear 
From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not  fear. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of  earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

CHORUS    OF   HOURS   AND    SPIRITS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain, 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In  leashes,  like  star-beams,  soft  yet  strong, 
The  clouds  that  are  heavv  with  love's  sweet 


PANTHEA. 

Ha  !   they  are  gone  ! 

IONE. 

Yet  feel  you  no  delight 
From  the  past  sweetness  ? 

PANTHEA. 

As  the  bare  green  hill 
When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain, 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny  water 
To  the  unpavilioned  sky  ! 

IONE. 

Even  whilst  we  speak 
New  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful  sound  ? 


412  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world, 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
iEolian  modulations. 

IONE. 

Listen  too, 
How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under-notes, 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within  the  soul, 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal  air, 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 

PANTHEA. 

But  see  where,  through  two  openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss,  violet  inwoven, 
Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of  lovely  grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts  ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 

IONE. 

I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat 
In  which  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave, 
When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams, 
O'er  which  is  curbed  an  orblike  canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 
Regard  like  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass ; 
Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunder-storm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  413 

When  the  sun  rushes  under  it ;  they  roll 

And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind ; 

Within  it  site  a  winged  infant,  white 

Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  snow, 

Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost, 

Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing 

folds 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 
Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 
Scattered  in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 
Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 
From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy  lashes, 
Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around, 
With  fire  that  is  not  brightness ;  in  its  hand 
Ir  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,  from  whose  point 
A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 
Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which,  as  they  roll 
Over   the   grass,  and  flowers,    and   waves,   wake 

sounds, 
Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 

PANTHEA. 

And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 
Hushes,  with  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 
A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  thousand  spheres, 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 
Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved, 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  green  and  golden, 
Sphere  within  sphere ;  and  every  space  between 
Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 
Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless  deep, 
Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 
Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 
Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 
And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swiftness, 
Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly,  roll  on, 
Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 


414  PROMETHEUB    UNBOUND. 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 

Grinds  the  brighl  brook  into  an  azure  mist 

Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light; 

And  the  wild  odour  of  the  forest  flowers, 

The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air, 

The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 

Round  its  intense  yet  sell-con flieting  speed, 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the  sense.     Within  the  orb  itself, 

Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 

Like  to  a  child  o'er  wearied  with  sweet  toil, 

On  its  own  folded  Avings,  and  wavy  hair, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep, 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles, 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 


'Tis  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 

PANTHEA. 

And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead,  shoot, 
Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 
With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 
Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 
Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible  wheel 
Which    whirl    as    the    orb    whirls,    swifter    than 

thought, 
Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lightnings, 
And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse, 
Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and  pass, 
Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 
Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 
And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 
With  vegetable  silver  overspread ; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 
Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is  fed, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  415 

Whose  vapours  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain- 
tops 
With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams  flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of  cancelled  cycles ;  anchors,  beaks  of  ships ; 
Planks  turned  to  marble  ;  quivers,  helms,  and  spears, 
And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of  scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts, 
Round  which  death  laughed,  sepulchred  emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew  over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human  ;  see,  they  lie 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skeletons, 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes ;  prodigious  shapes 
Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split. 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep ;  and  over  these, 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags ;  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 
Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy  shores, 
And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth, 
Increased  and  multiplied  like  summer  worms 
On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloke,  and  they 
Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished  ;  or  some  God 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  past,  and  cried. 
Be  not !     And  like  my  words  they  were  no  more. 

THE    EARTH. 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness  ! 
The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  gladness, 
The  vaporous  exultation  nut  to  be  confined ! 


416  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 

Ha  !  ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 
AVhich  wraps  me,  like  an  atmosphere  of  light, 
And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its  own  wind. 

THE   MOON. 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air, 
Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from  thee, 

Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame. 

And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With  love,  and  odour,  and  deep  melody 

Through  me,  through  me  ! 

THE   EARTH. 

Ha !  ha !  the  caverns  of  my  hollow  mountains, 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  fountains, 
Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable  laughter. 
The  oceans,  and  the  deserts,  and  the  abysses, 
And  the  deep  air's  unmeasured  wildernesses. 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows,  echoing 
after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptred  curse, 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muffle  round  with  black  destruc- 
tion, sending 
A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones. 
And   splinter  and   knead   down   my  children's 
bones, 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  battering  and 
blending. 

Until  each  crag-like  tower,  and  storied  column, 
Palace,  and  obelisk,  and  temple  solemn, 

My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud,  and 
snow,  and  fire ; 
My  sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and  blossom, 
Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my  bosom, 

Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  lifeless  mire. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  417 

How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  covered,  drunk  up 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drained  by  a  desert-troop,  a  little  drop  for  all ; 

And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above, 

Filling  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Bursts  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  the  thunder- 
ball. 

THE   MOON. 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 

Is  loosened  into  living  fountains, 
My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing  and  shine : 

A  spirit  from  my  heart  bursts  forth, 

It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom :  Oh !  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 
Green  stalks  burst  forth,  and  bright  flowers 
grow, 
And  living  shapes  upon  my  bosom  move  : 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air, 
Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there, 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming  of: 
'Tis  love,  all  love  ! 

THE   EARTH. 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass, 
Through  tangled  roots  and  trodden  clay  doth 
pass, 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flowers ; 
Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis  spread, 
It  wakes  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead, 
They   breathe    a   spirit   up    from   their   obscurest 
bowers. 

And  like  a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy  prison 
With  thunder,  and  with  whirlwind,  has  arisen 
Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined  being : 
vol.  i.  27 


-11H  PR0ME1  HEUfl    I'XHOUND. 

With  earthquake   shock  and   swiftness  making 
shiver 

Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved  forever, 
Till   hate,   and   fear,    and   pain,   light-vanquished 
shadows,  fleeing, 

Leave  Man,  who  was  a  many-sided  mirror, 
Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of  error, 

This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  reflecting  love  : 
Which  over  all  his  kind,  as  the  sun's  heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene,  and  even 

Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and  light,  doth 
move, 

Leave  Man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left, 
Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 

Of  rocks,   through   which   the   might   of   healing 
springs  is  poured ; 
Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile, 
Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 

It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child  restored. 

Man,  oh,  not  men  !  a  chain  of  linked  thought, 

Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine  stress  ; 

As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's  gaze, 

The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  heaven's  free 
wilderness. 

Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a  soul, 
Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the  sea ; 
Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love  ; 
Labour,    and   pain,    and   grief,   in    life's    green 
grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts,  none  knew  how  gentle  they 
could  be  ! 
Ilis  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  delights, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  419 

And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 
A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey, 
Is  as  a  tempest- winged  ship,  whose  helm 
Love  rules,  through  waves  which  dare  not  over- 
whelm, 
Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sovereign 
sway. 

All   things  confess  his  strength.      Through  the 

cold  mass 
Of  marble  and  of  colour  his  dreams  pass ; 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave  the  robes 
their  children  wear ; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  Orphic  song, 
Which  rules  with  Daedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of  thoughts  and  forms  which  else  senseless  and 
shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave  ;  heaven's  utmost  deep 
Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  numbered,  and  roll 
on  ! 
The  tempest  is  his  steed,  he  strides  the  air ; 
And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid  bare, 
Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets '?     Man  unveils  me ;  I 
have  none. 

THE   MOON. 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 

From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep  ; 

And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers, 

Wander  happy  paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep. 

'  THE   EARTH. 

As  the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may  fold 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green,  and  gold, 


420  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winded  mist, 
And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day, 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's  last  ray 

Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and  amethyst. 

THE   MOON. 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 
In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  thine  own  joy,  and  heaven's  smile  divine  ; 
All  suns  and  constellations  shower 
On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere ;  thou  pourest  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

THE   EARTH. 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 

Which  points  into  the  heavens  dreaming  delight, 

Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted  sleep ; 
As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faintly  sighing, 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying, 

Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and  warmth 
doth  keep. 

THE   MOON. 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 

When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes  are  dull ; 

So,  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 

Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered  ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful. 
Full,  oh,  too  full  ! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 
Brightest  world  of  many  a  one  ; 
Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 
With  a  light  which  is  divinest 
Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 
To  whom  life  and  light  is  given  ; 
I,  thy  crystal  paramour, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  421 

Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 

Like  the  polar  Paradise, 

Magnet-like  of  lovers'  eyes, 

I,  a  most  enamoured  maiden, 

"Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 

With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 

Maniac-like  around  thee  move 

Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 

On  thy  form  from  every  side, 

Like  a  Msenad,  round  the  cup 

Which  Agave  lifted  up 

In  the  weird  Cadmaean  forest. 

Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 

Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 

Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might, 

As  a  lover  or  cameleon 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glows  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  infolds 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

THE   EARTH. 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 
That  it  should  be  so. 
O  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing  the  seaman,  borne  the  summer  night 

Through  isles  forever  calm ; 
O  gentle  Moon,  thy  crystal  accents  pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 


422  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Charming   the   tiger    joy,   whose    tramplings 
fierce 
Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

PANTHKA. 

I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 


Ah  me  !  sweet  sister, 
The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  away  from  us, 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave, 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear  soft  dew 
Shaken  from  a  bathing  wood-nymph's  limbs  and 
hair. 

PANTHEA. 

Peace,  peace !  a  mighty  Power,  which  is  as  dark- 
ness, 
Is  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 
Is  showered  like  night,  and  from  within  the  air 
Bursts,  like  eclipse  which  had  been  gathered  up 
Into  the  pores  of  sunlight :  the  bright  visions, 
Wherein  the  singing  spirits  rode  and  shone, 
Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery  night. 

IONE. 

There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

PANTHEA. 

A  universal  sound  like  words  :   Oh,  list ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul. 
Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmonies, 

Beautiful  orb  !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 

The    love    which    paves    thy   path    along    the 
skies  : 

THE    EARTH. 

I  hear :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  423 

DEMOGOEGON. 

Thou  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly  Earth 
With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee  ; 

Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the  swift  birth 
Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony : 

THE   MOON. 

I  hear :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee  ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars  !  Daemons  and  Gods, 

Ethereal  Dominations  !  who  possess 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilderness : 

A   VOICE   FROM   ABOVE. 

Our  great  Republic  hears ;  we  are  blest,  and  bless. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  happy  dead !  whom  beams  of  brightest  verse 
Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colours  to  portray, 

Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 
Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered — 

A  VOICE   FROM    BENEATH. 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass  away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  central  stone 
Of  sullen  lead  ;  from  Heaven's  star-fretted  domes 

To  the  dull  weed  some  sea-worm  battens  on : 


A  CONFUSED   VOICE. 

We  hear :  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Spirits  !  whose  homes  are  flesh :  ye  beasts  and  birds, 
Ye  worms  and  fish ;  ye  living  leaves  and  buds  ; 


424  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Lightning  and  wind  ;  and  ye  untamable  herds, 
Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's  solitudes. 

A    VOICE. 

Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave ; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver ;  a  decay ; 
A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal  day  : 


Speak  !  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass  away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

This  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 
At  the  Earth-bom's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  des- 
potism, 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the 
deep ; 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dread  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength  ; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his  length, 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite  ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night ; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  425 

To  love,  and  bear ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates : 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent : 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan  !  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free  ; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory  ! 


NOTE  ON  TUP:  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 


On  the  12th  of  March,  1818,  Shelley  quitted  England, 
never  to  return.  His  principal  motive  was  the  hope  that 
his  health  would  he  improved  by  a  milder  climate:  he 
suffered  very  much  during  the  winter  previous  to  his 
emigration,  and  this  decided  his  vacillating  purpose.  In 
December,  1817,  he  had  written  from  Marlow  to  a  friend, 
saying:— 

"  My  health  has  been  materially  worse.  My  feelings  at 
intervals  are  of  a  deadly  and  torpid  kind,  or  awakened  to 
such  a  state  of  unnatural  and  keen  excitement,  that  only 
to  instance  the  organ  of  sight,  I  find  the  very  blades  of 
grass  and  the  boughs  of  distant  trees  present'  themselves 
to  me  with  microscopic  distinctness.  Towards  evening  I 
sink  into  a  state  of  lethargy  and  inanimation,  and  often 
remain  for  hours  on  the  sofa  between  sleep  and  waking, 
a  prey  to  the  most  painful  irritability  of  thought.  Such, 
with  little  intermission,  is  my  condition.  The  hours  de- 
voted to  study  are  selected  with  vigilant  caution  from 
among  these  periods  of  endurance.  It  is  not  for  this  that 
I  think  of  travelling  to  Italy,  even  if  I  knew  that  Italy 
would  relieve  me.  But  I  have  experienced  a  decisive 
pulmonary  attack,  and  although  at  present  it  has  passed 
away  without  any  considerable  vestige  of  its  existence, 
yet  this  symptom  sufficiently  shows  the  true  nature  of 
my  disease  to  be  consumptive.  It  is  to  my  advantage 
that  this  malady  is  in  its  nature  slow,  and,  if  one  is  suffi- 
ciently alive  to  its  advances,  is  susceptible  of  cure  from 
a  warm  climate.  In  the  event  of  its  assuming  any  decided 
shape,  it  vxmld  be  my  duty  to  go  to  Italy  without  delay. 
It  is  not  mere  health,  but  life,  that  I  should  seek,  and  that 
not  for  my  own  sake ;  I  feel  I  am  capable  of  trampling  on 
all  such  weakness — but  for  the  sake  of  those  to  whom  my 
life  may  be  a  soui-ce  of  happiness,  utility,  security,  and 
honour — and  to  some  of  whom  my  death  might  be  all  that 
is  the  reverse." 

In  almost  every  respect  his  journey  to  Italy  was  advan- 
tageous. He  left  behind  friends  to  whom  he  was  attached, 


NOTE  ON  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND.    427 

but  cares  of  a  thousand  kinds,  many  springing  from  his 
lavish  generosity,  crowded  round  him  in  his  native  coun- 
try :  and.  except  the  society  of  one  or  two  friends,  he  had 
no  compensation.  The  climate  caused  him  to  consume 
half  his  existence  in  helpless  suffering.  His  dearest  pleas- 
ure, the  free  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  of  nature,  was 
marred  by  the  same  circumstance. 

He  went  direct  to  Italy,  avoiding  even  Paris,  and  did 
not  make  any  pause  till  he  arrived  at  Milan.  The  first 
aspect  of  Italy  enchanted  Shelley ;  it  seemed  a  garden  of 
delight  placed  beneath  a  clearer  and  brighter  heaven  than 
any  he  had  lived  under  before.  He  wrote  long  descriptive 
letters  during  the  first  year  of  his  residence  in  Italy, 
which,  as  compositions/ are  the  most  beautiful  in  tne 
world,  and  show  how  truly  he  appreciated  and  studied 
the  wonders  of  nature  and  art  in  that  divine  land. 

The  poetical  spirit  within  him  speedily  revived  with  all 
the  power  and  with  more  than  all  the  beauty  of  his  first 
attempts.  He  meditated  three  subjects  as  the  ground- 
work for  lyrical  Dramas.  One  was  the  story  of  Tasso : 
of  this  a  slight  fragment  of  a  song  of  Tasso  remains.  The 
other  was  one  founded  on  the  book  of  Job,  which  he  never 
abandoned  in  idea,  but  of  which  no  trace  remains  among 
his  papers.  The  third  was  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound." 
The  Greek  tragedians  were  now  his  most  familiar  com- 
panions in  his  wanderings,  and  the  sublime  majesty  of 
iEschylus  filled  him  with  wonder  and  delight.  The  father 
of  Greek  tragedy  does  not  possess  the  pathos  of  Sophocles, 
nor  the  variety  and  tenderness  of  Euripides ;  the  interest 
on  which  he  founds  his  dramas  is  often  elevated  above 
human  vicissitudes  into  the  mighty  passions  and  throes 
of  gods  and  demigods — such  fascinated  the  abstract  imag- 
ination of  Shelley. 

We  spent  a  month  at  Milan,  visiting  the  Lake  of  Como 
during  that  interval.  Thence  we  passed  in  succession  to 
Pisa,  Leghorn,  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  Venice,  Este,  Rome, 
Naples,  and  back  again  to  Rome,  whither  we  returned 
early  in  March,  1819.  During  all  this  time  Shelley  medi- 
tated the  subject  of  his  drama,  and  wrote  portions  of  it. 
Other  poems  were  composed  during  this  interval,  and 
while  at  the  Bagni  di  Lucca  he  translated  Plato's  Sym- 
posium. But  though  he  diversified  his  studies,  his . 
thoughts  centred  in  the  "Prometheus."  At  last,  when 
at  Rome,  during  a  bright  and  beautiful  spring,  he  gave 
up  his  whole  time  to  the  composition.  The  spot  selected 
for  his  study  was,  as  he  mentions  in  his  preface,  the 
mountainous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla.     These  are 


428    NOTE  ON  PROMETHEU8  UNBOUND. 

little  known  to  the  ordinary  visitor  at  Rome.  He  describes 
them  in  a  letter,  with  that  poetry,  and  delicacy,  and  truth 
of  description,  which  render  his  narrated  impressions  of 
scenery  of  unequalled  beauty  and  interest. 

At  first  he  completed  the  drama  in  three  acts.  It  was 
not  till  several  months  after,  when  at  Florence,  that  he 
conceived  that  a  fourth  act,  a  sort  of  hymn  of  rejoicing  in 
the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  with  regard  to  Prome- 
theus, ought  to  be  added  to  complete  the  composition. 

The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's  theory  of  the  des- 
tiny of  the  human  species  was,  that  evil  is  not  inherent 
in  the  system  of  the  creation,  but  an  accident  that  might 
be  expelled.  This  also  forms  a  portion  of  Christianity ; 
God  made  earth  and  man  perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

"  Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only  to  will  that  there 
should  be  no  evil,  and  there  would  be  none.  It  is  not  my 
part  in  these  notes  to  notice  the  arguments  that  have  been 
urged  against  this  opinion,  but  to  mention  the  fact  that 
he  entertained  it,  and  was  indeed  attached  to  it  with  fer- 
vent enthusiasm.  That  man  could  be  so  perfectionized 
as  to  be  able  to  expel  evil  from  his  own  nature,  and  from 
the  greater  part  of  the  creation,  was  the  cardinal  point  of 
his  system.  And  the  subject  he  loved  best  to  dwell  on, 
was  the  image  of  One  warring  with  the  Evil  Principle, 
oppressed  not  only  by  it,  but  by  all  even  the  good,  who 
were  deluded  into  considering  evil  a  necessaiy  portion  of 
humanity.  A  victim  full  of  fortitude  and  hope,  and  the 
spirit  of  triumph  emanating  from  a  reliance  in  the  ulti- 
mate omnipotence  of  good.  Such  he  had  depicted  in  his 
last  poem,  when  he  made  Laon  the  enemy  and  the  victim 
of  tyrants.  He  now  took  a  more  idealized  image  of  the 
same  subject.  He  followed  certain  classical  authorities 
in  figuring  Saturn  as  the  good  principle,  Jupiter  the 
usurping  evil  one,  and  Prometheus  as  the  regenerator, 
who,  unable  to  bring  mankind  back  to  primitive  inno- 
cence, used  knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  defeat  evil,  by 
leading  mankind  beyond  the  state  wherein  they  are  sin- 
less through  ignorance,  to  that  in  which  they  are  virtuous 
through  wisdom.  Jupiter  punished  the  temerity  of  the 
Titan  by  chaining  him  to  a  rock  of  Caucasus,  and  causing 
a  vulture  to  devour  his  still  renewed  heart.  There  was  a 
prophecv  afloat  in  heaven  portending  the  fall  of  Jove,  the 
secret  of  averting  which  was  known  only  to  Prometheus ; 
and  the  god  offered  freedom  from  torture  on  condition 


NOTE    ON    PBSOMETHEUS    UNBOUND.         429 

of  its  being  communicated  to  him.  According  to  the 
mythological  story,  this  referred  to  the  offspring  of  Thetis, 
who  was  destined  to  be  greater  than  his  father.  Prome- 
theus at  last  bought  pardon  for  his  crime  of  enriching 
mankind  with  his  gifts,  by  revealing  the  prophecy.  Her- 
cules killed  the  vulture  and  set  him  free,  and  Thetis  was 
married  to  Peleus  the  father  of  Achilles. 

Shelley  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this  story  to  his 
peculiar  views.  The  son,  greater  than  his  father,  born  of 
the  nuptials  of  Jupiter  and  Thetis,  was  to  dethrone  Evil, 
and  bring  back  a  happier  reign  than  that  of  Saturn.  Pro- 
metheus defies  the  power  of  his  enemy,  and  endures  cen- 
turies of  torture,  till  the  hour  arrives  when  Jove,  blind  to 
the  real  event,  but  darkly  guessing  that  some  great  good 
to  himself  will  flow,  espouses  Thetis.  At  the  moment, 
the  Primal  Power  of  the  world  drives  him  from  his 
usurped  throne,  and  Strength,  in  the  person  of  Hercules, 
liberates  Humanity,  typified  in  Prometheus,  from  the  tor- 
tures generated  by  evil  done  or  suffered.  Asia,  one  of  the 
Oceanides,  is  the  wife  of  Prometheus — she  was,  according 
to  other  mythological  interpretations,  the  same  as  Venus 
and  Mature.  When  the  Benefactor  of  Mankind  is  liber- 
ated, Nature  resumes  the  beauty  of  her  prime,  and  is 
united  to  her  husband,  the  emblem  of  the  human  race,  in 
perfect  and  happy  union.  In  the  Fourth  Act,  the  Poet 
gives  further  scope  to  his  imagination,  and  idealizes  the 
forms  of  creation,  such  as  we  know  them,  instead  of  such 
as  they  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  Maternal  Earth,  the 
mighty  Parent,  is  superseded  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth 
— the  guide  of  our  Planet  through  the  realms  of  sky — 
while  his  fair  and  weaker  companion  and  attendant,  the 
Spirit  of  the  Moon,  receives  bliss  from  the  annihilation  of 
Evil  in  the  superior  sphere. 

Shelley  develops,  more  particularly  in  the  lyrics  of  this 
drama,  his  abstruse  and  imaginative  theories  with  regard 
to  the  Creation.  It  requires  a  mind  as  subtle  and  pene- 
trating as  his  own  to  understand  the  mystic  meanings 
scattered  throughout  the  poem.  They  elude  the  ordinary 
reader  by  their  abstraction  and  delicacy  of  distinction, 
but  they  are  far  from  vague.  It  was  his  design  to  write 
prose  metaphysical  essays  on  the  nature  of  Man,  which 
would  have  served  to  explain  much  of  what  is  obscure  in 
his  poetry;  a  few  scattered  fragments  of  observations  and 
remarks  alone  remain.  He  considered  these  philosophical 
views  of  mind  and  nature  to  be  instinct  with  the  intensest 
spirit  of  poetry. 

More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal  with  familiar  and 


430  NOTE    <>.\    PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

sensible  imagery.  Shelley  loved  to  idealize  the  real — to 
gift  the  mechanism  of  the  material  universe  with  h  son] 

and  n  voice,  and  to  bestow  such  also  OD  the  most  delicate; 
and  abstract  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  mind.  Sopho- 
cles  waa  bis  greal  master  in  this  species  of  imagery. 

I  find  in  one  of  his  manuscript  books  some  remarks  on 
a  line  in  the  CEdipua  Tyrannus,  which  shows  at  once  the 
critical  subtlety  of  Shelley's  mind,  and  explains  his  appre- 
hension of  those  "  minute  and  remote  distinctions  of  reel- 
ing, whether  relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living 
beings  which  -urround  us,"  which  he  pronounces,  in  the 
letter  quoted  in  the  note  to  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  to  com- 
prehend all  that  is  sublime  in  man. 

"  In  the  Greek  Shakspeare,  Sophocles,  we  find  the 
image, 

TLo?Jiag  <5'  bdovs  k?v&6vTa  (ppovridoc;  ixkavoiq. 

A  line  of  almost  unfathomable  depth  of  poetry,  yet  how 
simple  are  the  images  in  which  it  is  arrayed, 

Coming  to  many  ways  in  the  wanderings  of  careful  thought. 

If  the  words  cdovg  and  irkavoiQ  had  not  been  used,  the 
line  might  have  been  explained  in  a  metaphorical,  in- 
stead of  an  absolute  sense,  as  we  say  '  ways  and  me 
and  wanderings,  for  error  and  confusion ;  but  they  meant 
literally  paths  or  roads,  such  as  we  tread  with  our  feet; 
and  wa'nderings,  such  as  a  man  makes  when  he  loses  him- 
self in  a  desert,  or  roams  from  city  to  city,  as  CEdipus,  the 
speaker  of  this  verse,  was  destined  to  wander,  blind  and 
asking  charity.  What  a  picture  does  this  line  suggest  of 
the  mind  as  a  wilderness  of  intricate  paths,  wide  as  the 
universe,  which  is  here  made  its  symbol,  a  world  within 
a  wrorld,  which  he,  who  seeks  some  knowledge  with  re- 
spect to  what  he  ought  to  do,  searches  throughout,  as  he 
would  search  the  external  universe  for  some  valued  thing 
which  was  hidden  from  him  upon  its  surface." 

In  reading  Shelley's  poetry,  we  often  rind  similar  verses, 
resembling,  but  not  imitating,  the  Greek  in  this  species 
of  imagery ;  for  though  he  adopted  the  style,  he  gifted  it 
with  that  "originality  of  form  and  colouring  which  sprung 
from  his  own  genius. 

In  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  Shelley  fulfils  the  prom- 
ise quoted  from  a  letter  in  the  Note' on  the  Revolt  of 
Islam.*     The  tone  of  the  composition  is  calmer  and  more 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  that  Poem,  it  struck  me 


NOTE    ON    PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.         431 

majestic,  the  poetry  more  perfect  as  a  whole,  and  the 
imagination  displayed  at  once  more  pleasingly  beautiful 
and  more  varied  and  daring.  The  description  of  the 
Hours,  as  they  are  seen  in  the  cave  of  Demogorgon,  is  an 
instance  of  this — it  fills  the  mind  as  the  most  charming 
picture — we  long  to  see  an  artist  at  work  to  bring  to  our 
view  the 

cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer,  urging  their  flight. 
Some  looked  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.     Their  bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair :  they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

Through  the  whole  Poem  there  reigns  a  sort  of  calm  and 
holy  spirit  of  love ;  it  soothes  the  toi-tured,  and  is  hope  to 
the  expectant,  till  the  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  and  Love, 
untainted  by  any  evil,  becomes  the  law  of  the  world. 

England  had  been  rendered  a  painful  residence  to 
Shelley,  as  much  by  the  sort  of  persecution  with  which 
in  those  days  all  men  of  liberal  opinions  were  visited,  and 
by  the  injustice  he  had  lately  endured  in  the  Court  of 
Chancery,  as  by  the  symptoms  of  disease  which  made 
him  regard  a  visit  to  Italy  as  necessary  to  prolong  his  life. 
An  exile,  and  strongly  impressed  with  the  feeling  that 
the  majority  of  his  countrymen  regarded  him  with  senti- 
ments of  aversion,  such  as  his  own  heart  could  experience 
towards  none,  he  sheltered  himself  from  such  disgusting 
and  painful  thoughts  in  the  calm  retreats  of  poetry,  and 
built  up  a  world  of  his  own,  with  the  more  pleasure,  since 
he  hoped  to  induce  some  one  or  two  to  believe  that  the 
earth  might  become  such,  did  mankind  themselves  con- 
sent.    The  charm  of  the  Koman  climate  helped  to  clothe 

that  the  Poet  had  indulged  in  an  exaggerated  view  of  the  evils  of 
restored  despotism,  which,  however  injurious  and  degrading, 
were  less  openly  sanguinary  than  the  triumph  of  anarchy,  such 
as  it  appeared  in  France  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  But 
at  this  time  a  book,  "  Scenes  of  Spanish  Life,"  translated  by 
Lieutenant  Crawford  from  the  German  of  Dr.  Huber.  of  Rostock, 
fell  into  my  hands.  The  account  of  the  triumph  of  the  priests 
and  the  serviles,  after  the  French  invasion  of  Spain  in  1823, 
bears  a  strong  and  frightful  resemblance  to  some  of  the  descrip- 
tions of  the  massacre  of  the  patriots  in  the  Revolt  of  Islam. 


432         NOTE   OX    PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

his  thoughts  in  greater  beauty  than  tliey  had  ever  worn 
before.  And  as  he  wandered  among  the  ruins,  made  one 
with  nature  in  their  decay,  or  gazed  on  the  Praxitelean 
shapes  that  throng  the  Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  the 
palaces  of  Rome,  his  soul  imbibed  forms  of  loveliness 
which  became  a  portion  of  itself.  There  are  many  pas- 
sages in  the  "Prometheus"  which  show  the  intense 
delight  he  received  from  such  studies,  and  give  back  the 
impression  with  a  beauty  of  poetical  description  pecu- 
liarly his  own.  He  felt  this,  as  a  poet  must  feel  when  he 
satisfies  himself  by  the  result  of  his  labours,  and  he  wrote 
from  Rome,  "  My  Prometheus  Unbound  is  just  finished, 
and  in  a  month  or  two  I  shall  send  it.  It  is  a  drama,  with 
characters,  and  mechanism  of  a  kind  yet  unattempted, 
and  I  think  the  execution  is  better  than  any  of  my  former 
attempts." 

I  may  mention,  for  the  information  of  the  more  critical 
reader,  that  the  verbal  alterations  in  this  edition  of  Pro- 
metheus are  made  from  a  list  of  errata,  written  by  Shelley 
himself. 


THE    CENCI; 
A   TRAGEDY. 

IN    FIVE    ACTS. 


28 


DEDICATION. 

TO    LEIGH    HUNT,    ESQ. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  inscribe  with  your  name,  from  a  distant  country,  and  after 
an  absence  whose  months  have  seemed  years,  this  the  latest  of 
my  literary  efforts . 

Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  published,  have  been 
little  else  than  visions  which  impersonate  my  own  apprehensions 
of  the  beautiful  and  the  just.  I  can  also  perceive  in  them  the 
literary  defects  incidental  to  youth  and  impatience;  they  are 
dreams  of  what  ought  to  be,  or  may  be.  The  drama  which  I  now 
present  to  you  is  a  sad  reality.  I  lay  aside  the  presumptuous 
attitude  of  an  instructor,  and  am  content  to  paint,  with  such 
colours  as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that  which  has  been. 

Had  I  known  a  person  more  highly  endowed  than  yourself  with 
all  that  it  becomes  a  man  to  possess,  I  had  solicited  for  this  work 
the  ornament  of  his  name.  One  more  gentle,  honourable,  inno- 
cent, and  brave;  one  of  more  exalted  toleration  for  all  who  do 
and  think  evil,  and  yet  himself  more  free  from  evil;  one  who 
knows  better  how  to  receive,  and  how  to  confer  a  benefit,  though 
he  must  ever  confer  far  more  than  he  can  receive ;  one  of  simpler, 
and,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  of  purer  life  and  manners, 
I  never  knew ;  and  I  had  already  been  fortunate  in  friendships 
when  your  name  was  added  to  the  list. 

In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  enmity  with  domestic  and 
political  tyranny  and  imposture  which  the  tenor  of  your  life  has 
illustrated,  and  which,  had  I  health  and  talents,  should  illustrate 
mine,  let  us,  comforting  each  other  in  our  task,  live  and  die. 
All  happiness  attend  you  ! 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Percy  B.  Shelley. 

Rome,  May  29,  1819. 


PREFACE. 


A  manuscript  was  communicated  to  me  during  my 
travels  in  Italy,  which  was  copied  from  the  archives  of 
the  Oenci  Palace,  at  Rome,  and  contains  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  the  horrors  which  ended  in  the  extinction  of  one 
of  the  noblest  and  richest  families  of  that  city,  during  the 
pontificate  of  Clement  VIII.,  in  the  year  1599.  The  story 
is,  that  an  old  man,  having  spent  his  life  in  debauchery 
and  wickedness,  conceived  at  length  an  implacable  hatred 
towards  his  children;  which  showed  itself  towards  one 
daughter  under  the  form  of  an  incestuous  passion,  aggra- 
vated by  every  circumstance  of  cruelty  and  violence. 
This  daughter,  after  long  and  vain  attempts  to  escape 
from  what  she  considered  a  perpetual  contamination  both 
of  body  and  mind,  at  length  plotted  with  her  mother-in- 
law  and  brother  to  murder  their  common  tyrant.  The 
young  maiden,  who  was  urged  to  this  tremendous  deed 
by  an  impulse  which  overpowered  its  horror,  was  evi- 
dently a  most  gentle  and  amiable  being;  a  creature 
formed  to  adorn  and  be  admired,  and  thus  violently 
thwarted  from  her  nature  by  the  necessity  of  circum- 
stances and  opinion.  The  deed  was  quickly  discovered, 
and  in  spite  of  the  most  earnest  prayers  made  to  the  Pope 
by  the  highest  persons  in  Rome,  the  criminals  were  put 
to  death.  The  old  man  had,  during  his  life,  repeatedly 
bought  his  pardon  from  the  Pope  for  capital  crimes  of 
the  most  enormous  and  unspeakable  kind,  at  the  price  of 
a  hundred  thousand  crowns;  the  death  therefore  of  his 
victims  can  scarcely  be  accounted  for  by  the  love  of 
justice.  The  Pope^  among  other  motives  for  severity, 
probablv  felt  that  whoever  killed  the  Count  Cenci,  de- 
prived his  treasury  of  a  certain  and  copious  source  of 
revenue.*  Such  a'  story,  if  told  so  as  to  present  to  the 
reader  all  the  feelings  of  those  who  once  acted  it,  their 


*  The  Papal  Government  formerly  took  the  most  extraordinary 
precautions  against  the  publicity  of  facts  which  offer  so  tragical 
a  demonstration  of  its  own  wickedness  and  weakness ;  so  that 
the  communication  of  the  MS.  had  become,  until  very  lately,  a 
matter  of  some  difficulty. 


THE    CEXCI.  437 

hopes  and  fears,  their  confidences  and  misgivings,  their 
various  interests,  passions,  and  opinions,  acting  upon  and 
with  each  other,  yet  all  conspiring  to  one  tremendous  end, 
would  be  as  a  light  to  make  apparent  some  of  the  most 
dark  and  secret  caverns  of  the  human  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Rome,  1  found  that  the  story  of  the 
Cenci  was  a  subject  not  to  be  mentioned  in  Italian  society 
without  awakening  a  deep  and  breathless  interest;  and 
that  the  feelings  of  the  company  never  failed  to  incline  to 
a  romantic  pity  for  the  wrongs,  and  a  passionate  excul- 

Eation  of  the  horrible  deed  to  which  they  urged  her,  who 
as  been  mingled  two  centuries  with  the  common  dust. 
All  ranks  of  people  knew  the  outlines  of  this  history,  and 
participated  in  the  overwhelming  interest  which  it  seems 
to  have  the  magic  of  exciting  in  the  human  heart.  I  had 
a  copy  of  Guido's  picture  of  Beatrice,  which  is  preserved 
in  the  Colonna  Palace,  and  my  servant  instantly  recog- 
nized it  as  the  portrait  of  La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest  which  the  story 
produces  and  has  produced  for  two  centuries,  and  among 
all  ranks  of  people  in  a  great  city,  where  the  imagination 
is  kept  forever  active  and  awake,  first  suggested  to  me 
the  conception  of  its  fitness  for  a  dramatic  purpose.  In 
fact,  it  is  a  tragedy  which  has  already  received,  from  its 
capacity  of  awakening  and  sustaining  the  sympathy  of 
men,  approbation  and  success.  Nothing  remained,  as  I 
imagined,  but  to  clothe  it  to  the  apprehensions  of  my 
countrymen  in  such  language  and  action  as  would  bring 
it  home  to  their  hearts.  The  deepest  and  the  sublimest 
tragic  compositions,  King  Lear,  and  the  two  plays  in 
which  the  tale  of  (Edipus  is  told,  were  stories  which 
already  existed  in  tradition,  as  matters  of  popular  belief 
and  interest,  before  Shakspeare  and  Sophocles  made  them 
familiar  to  the  sympathy  of  all  succeeding  generations  of 
mankind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  eminently  fearful  and 
monstrous:  any  thing  like  a  dry  exhibition  of  it  on  the 
stage  would  be  insupportable.  The  person  who  would 
treat  such  a  subject  must  increase  the  ideal,  and  diminish 
the  actual  horror  of  the  events,  so  that  the  pleasure  which 
arises  from  the  poetry  which  exists  in  these  tempestuous 
sufferings  and  crimes,  may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  con- 
templation of  the  moral  deformity  from  which  they  spring. 
There  must  also  be  nothing  attempted  to  make  the  exhi- 
bition subservient  to  what  is  vulgarly  termed  a  moral 
purpose.  The  highest  moral  purpose  aimed  at  in  the 
highest  species  of  the  drama,  is  the  teaching  of  the  human 


438  THE    CENCI. 

heart,  through  its  sympathies  and  antipathies,  the  knowl- 
edge of  itself;  in  proportion  to  the  possession  of  which 
knowledge  every  human  being  is  wise,  just,  sincere,  tol- 
erant, and  kind.  If  dogmas  can  do  more,  it  is  well :  but 
a  drama  is  no  fit  place  for  the  enforcement  of  them.  Un- 
doubtedly no  person  can  be  truly  dishonoured  by  the  act 
of  another ;  and  the  fit  return  to  make  to  the  most  enor- 
mous injuries  is  kindness  and  forbearance,  and  a  resolution 
to  convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark  passions  by  peace 
and  love.  Revenge,  retaliation,  atonement,  are  pernicious 
mistakes.  If  Beatrice  had  thought  in  this  manner,  she 
would  have  been  wiser  and  better;  but  she  would  never 
have  been  a  tragic  character:  the  few  whom  such  an 
exhibition  would  have  interested,  could  never  have  been 
sufficiently  interested  for  a  dramatic  purpose,  from  the 
want  of  finding  sympathy  in  their  interest  among  the 
mass  who  surround  them.  It  is  in  the  restless  and  anato- 
mizing casuistry  with  which  men  seek  the  justification 
of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she  has  done  what  needs  justifi- 
cation; it  is  in  the  superstitious  horror  with  which  they 
contemplate  alike  her  wrongs  and  their  revenge,  that 
the  dramatic  character  of  what  she  did  and  suffered 
consists. 

I  have  endeavoured  as  nearly  as  possible  to  represent 
the  characters  as  they  probably  were,  and  have  sought  to 
avoid  the  error  of  making  them  actuated  by  my  own  con- 
ceptions of  right  or  wrong,  false  or  true :  thus  under  a 
thin  veil  converting  names  and  actions  of  the  sixteenth 
century  into  cold  impersonations  of  my  own  mind.  They 
are  represented  as  Catholics,  and  as  Catholics  deeply 
tinged  with  religion.  To  a  Protestant  apprehension,  there 
will  appear  something  unnatural  in  the  earnest  and  per- 
petual sentiment  of  the  relations  between  God  and  man 
which  pervade  the  tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  It  will  especi- 
ally be  startled  at  the  combination  of  an  undoubting  per- 
suasion of  the  truth  of  the  popular  i-eligion,  with  a  cool 
and  determined  perseverance  in  enormous  guilt.  But 
religion  in  Italy  is  not,  as  in  Protestant  countries,  a  cloak 
to  be  worn  on  particular  days ;  or  a  passport  which  those 
who  do  not  wish  to  be  railed  at  carry  with  them  to 
exhibit;  or  a  gloomy  passion  for  penetrating  the  impene- 
trable mysteries  of  our  being,  which  terrifies  its  possessor 
at  the  darkness  of  the  abyss  to  the  brink  of  which  it  has 
conducted  him.  Religion  coexists,  as  it  were,  in  the 
mind  of  an  Italian  Catholic  with  a  faith  in  that  of  which 
all  men  have  the  most  certain  knowledge.  It  is  inter- 
woven with  the  whole  fabric  of  life.    It  is  adoration,  faith, 


THE    CENCI.  439 

submission,  penitence,  blind  admiration ;  not  a  rule  for 
moral  conduct.  It  bas  no  necessary  connection  with  any 
one  virtue.  The  most  atrocious  villain  may  be  rigidly- 
devout,  and,  without  any  shock  to  established  faith,  con- 
fess himself  to  be  so.  Religion  pervades  intensely  the 
whole  frame  of  society,  and  is,  according  to  the  temper 
of  the  mind  which  it  inhabits,  a  passion,  a  persuasion,  an 
excuse,  a  refuge ;  never  a  check.  Cenci  himself  built  a 
chapel  in  the  court  of  his  palace,  and  dedicated  it  to  St. 
Thomas  the  Apostle,  and  established  masses  for  the  peace 
of  his  soul.  Thus,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  fourth  act, 
Lucretia's  design  in  exposing  herself  to  the  consequences 
of  an  expostulation  with  Cenci  after  having  administered 
the  opiate,  was  to  induce  him  by  a  feigned  tale  to  confess 
himself  before  death ;  this  being  esteemed  by  Catholics 
as  essential  to  salvation ;  and  she  only  relinquishes  her 
purpose  when  she  perceives  that  her  perseverance  would 
expose  Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided,  with  great  care,  in  writing  this  play, 
the  introduction  of  what  is  commonly  called  mere  poetry, 
and  I  imagine  there  will  scarcely  be  found  a  detached 
simile  or  a  single  isolated  description,  unless  Beatrice's 
description  of  the  chasm  appointed  for  her  father's  murder 
should  be  judged  to  be  of  that  nature.* 

In  a  dramatic  composition  the  imagery  and  the  passion 
should  interpenetrate  one  another,  the  former  being  re- 
served simplv  for  the  full  development  and  illustration  of 
the  latter.  Imagination  is  as  the  immortal  God  which 
should  assume  flesh  for  the  redemption  of  mortal  passion. 
It  is  thus  that  the  most  remote  and  the  most  familiar 
imagery  may  alike  be  fit  for  dramatic  purposes  Avhen 
employed  in  the  illustration  of  strong  feeling,  which  raises 
what  is  low,  and  levels  to  the  apprehension  that  which  is 
lofty,  casting  over  all  the  shadow  of  its  own  greatness. 
In  other  respects  I  have  written  more  carelessly ;  that  is, 
without  an  overfastidious  and  learned  choice' of  words. 
In  this  respect,  I  entirely  agree  with  those  modern  critics 
who  assert,  that  in  order  to  move  men  to  true  sympathy, 
we  must  use  the  familiar  language  of  men ;  and  that  our 
great  ancestors,  the  ancient  English  poets,  are  the  writers, 
a  study  of  whom  might  incite  us  to  do  that  for  our  own 
age  which  they  have  done  for  theirs.     But  it  must  be  the 

*  An  idea  in  this  speech  was  suggested  by  a  most  sublime 
passage  in  "  El  Purgatorio  de  San  Patricio,"  of  Calderon :  the 
only  plagiarism  which  I  have  intentionally  committed  in  the 
whole  piece. 


440  THE   CKNCI. 

real  language  of  men  in  general,  and  not  that  of  any  par- 
ticular class,  to  whose  society  the  writer  happens  to 
belong.  So  much  for  what  I  have  attempted:  I  Deed  not 
be  assured  that  success  is  a  very  different  matter;  par- 
ticularly for  one  whose  attention  has  but  newly  been 
awakened  to  the  study  of  dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavoured,  whilst  at  Rome,  to  observe  such  monu- 
ments of  this  story  as  might  be  accessible  to  a  stranger. 
The  portrait  of  Beatrice,  at  the  Colonna  Palace,  is  most 
admirable  as  a  work  of  art:  it  was  taken  by  Guido  during 
her  confinement  in  prison.  But  it  is  most  interesting  as 
a  just  representation  of  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of 
the  workmanship  of  Nature.  There  is  a  fixed  and  pale 
composure  upon  the  features:  she  seems  sad  and  stricken 
down  in  spirit,  yet  the  despair  thus  expressed  is  lightened 
by  the  patience  of  gentleness.  Her  head  is  bound  with 
folds  of  white  drapery,  from  which  the  yellow  strings  of 
her  golden  hair  escape,  and  fall  about*  her  neck.  The 
moulding  of  her  face  is  exquisitely  delicate;  the  eye- 
brows are  distinct  and  arched;  the  lips  have  that  per- 
manent meaning  of  imagination  and  sensibility  which 
suffering  has  not  repressed,  and  which  it  seems  as  if 
death  scarcely  could  extinguish.  Her  forehead  is  large 
and  clear;  her  eyes,  which  we  are  told  were  remark- 
able for  their  vivacity,  are  swollen  with  weeping  and 
lustreless,  but  beautifully  tender  and  serene.  In  the 
whole  mien  there  is  a  simplicity  and  dignity,  which, 
united  with  her  exquisite  loveliness  and  deep  sorrow, 
are  inexpressibly  pathetic.  Beatrice  Cenci  appears  to 
have  been  one  of  those  rare  persons  in  whom  energy 
and  gentleness  dwell  together  without  destroying  one 
another:  her  nature  was  simple  and  profound.  The 
crimes  and  miseries  in  which  she  was  an  actor  and  a 
sufferer,  are  as  the  mask  and  the  mantle,  in  which  cir- 
cumstances clothed  her  for  her  impersonation  on  the 
scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  great  extent;  and,  though  in 
part  modernized,  there  yet  remains  a  vast  and  gloomy 
pile  of  feudal  architecture  in  the  same  state  as  during  the 
dreadful  scenes  which  are  the  subject  of  this  tragedy. 
The  palace  is  situated  in  an  obscure  corner  of  Rome,  near 
the  quarter  of  the  Jews,  and  from  the  upper  windows  you 
see  the  immense  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden 
under  their  profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is  a  court 
in  one  part  of  the  palace  (perhaps  that  in  which  Cenci 
built  the  chapel  to  St.  Thomas)  supported  by  granite 
columns  and  adorned  with  antique  friezes  of  fine  work- 


THE    CENCI.  441 

manship,  and  built  up,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian 
fashion,  with  balcony  over  balcony  of  open  work.  One 
of  the  gates  of  the  palace,  formed  of  immense  stones,  and 
leading  through  a  passage  dark  and  lofty,  and  opening 
into  gloomy  subterranean  chambers,  struck  me  particu- 
larly."" 

Of  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  I  could  obtain  no  further  in- 
formation than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  manu- 
script. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Count  Francesco  Cenci. 
Cardinal  Camillo. 


Orsino,  a  Prelate. 
Savella,  the  Pope's  Legate. 
Olimpio,   J   AMaatAaA 
Marzio,     > 


Andrea,  Servant  to  Cenci. 
Nobles,  Judges,  Guards,  Servants. 
Lucretia,  Wife  of  Cenci,  and  step-mother  of  his  children. 
Beatrice,  his  Daughter. 


The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  changes  during  the 
Fourth  Act  to  Pelrella,  a  Castle  among  the  Apulian  Apen- 
nines. 

Time. — During  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII. 


THE   CENCI. 

ACT   I. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 
Enter  Count  Cenci  and  Cardinal  Camillo. 

CAMILLO. 

That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hushed  up 

If  you  consent  to  yield  his  Holiness 

Your  fief  that  lies  beyond  the  Pincian  gate. — 

It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 

To  bend  him  to  this  point :  he  said  that  you 

Bought  perilous  impunity  with  your  gold ; 

That  crimes  like  yours  if  once  or  twice  compounded 

Enriched  the  Church,  and  respited  from  hell 

An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and  live : 

But  that  the  glory  and  the  interest 

Of  the  high  throne  he  fills,  little  consist 

With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 

So  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 

Which  you  scarce  hide  from  men's  revolted  eyes. 


The  third  of  my  possessions — let  it  go  ! 
Ay,  I  once  heard  the  nephew  of  the  Pope 
Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground, 
Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 
The  next  time  I  compounded  with  his  uncle : 
I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so  I 
Henceforth  no  witness — not  the  lamp — shall  see 
That  which  the  vassal  threatened  to  divulge, 
Whose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his  reward. 


444  THE  CENCI. 

The  deed  he  saw  could  not  have  rated  higher 
Than  his  most  worthless  life  : — it  angers  me! 
Respited  from  Hell! — So  may  the  Devil 
Respite  their  souls  from  Heaven.     No  doubt  Pope 

Clement, 
And  his  most  charitable  nephews,  pray 
That  the  Apostle  Peter  and  the  saints 
Will  grant  for  their  sake  that  I  long  enjoy 
Strength,  wealth,  and  pride,  and  lust,  and  length 

of  days 
Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  which  are  the  stewards 
Of  their  revenue. — But  much  yet  remains 
To  which  they  show  no  title. 


Oh,  Count  Cenci ! 
So  much  that  thou  might'st  honourably  live, 
And  reconcile  thyself  with  thine  own  heart 
And  with  thy  God,  and  with  the  offended  world. 
How  hideously  look  deeds  of  lust  and  blood 
Through  those  snow-white  and  venerable  hairs ! 
Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you  now, 
But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 
The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written  there. 
Where   is   your   wife  ?      Where    is    your    gentle 

daughter  ? 
Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make  all  things 

else 
Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the   fiend  within 

you. 
Why  is  she  barred  from  all  society 
But  her  own  strange  and  uncomplaining  wrongs  ? 
Talk  with  me,  Count,  you  know  I  mean  you  well. 
I  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth, 
Watching  its  bold  and  bad  career,  as  men 
Watch  meteors,  but  it  vanished  not — I  marked 
Your  desperate  and  remorseless  manhood ;  now 
Do  I  behold  you,  in  dishonoured  age, 
Charged  with  a  thousand  unrepented  crimes. 


THE   CENCI.  445 

Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend, 

And  in  that  hope  have  saved  your  life  three  times. 

CENCI. 

For  which  Aldobrandino  owes  you  now 
My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian — Cardinal, 
One  thing,  I  pray  you,  recollect  henceforth, 
And  so  we  shall  converse  with*  less  restraint. 
A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wife  and  daughter, 
He  was  accustomed  to  frequent  my  house ; 
So  the  next  day  his  wife  and  daughter  came 
And  asked  if  I  had  seen  him ;  and  I  smiled : 
I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 

CAMTLLO. 

Thou  execrable  man,  beware  ! 


Of  thee  ? 
Nay  this  is  idle  : — We  should  know  each  other. 
As  to  my  character  for  what  men  call  crime, 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list, 
And  vindicate  that  right  with  force  or  guile, 
It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 
If  I  discuss  it  with  you.     I  may  speak 
Alike  to  you  and  my  own  conscious  heart ; 
For  you  give  out  that  you  have  half  reformed  me, 
Therefore  strong  vanity  will  keep  you  silent 
If  fear  should  not ;  both  will,  I  do  not  doubt. 
All  men  delight  in  sensual  luxury, 
All  men  enjoy  revenge  ;  and  most  exult 
Over  the  tortures  they  can  never  feel ; 
Flattering  their  secret  peace  with  others'  pain. 
But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.     I  love 
The  sight  of  agony,  and  the  sense  of  joy, 
When  this  shall  be  another's  and  that  mine. 
And  I  have  no  remorse,  and  little  fear, 
Which  are,  I  think,  the  checks  of  other  men. 
This  mood  has  grown  upon  me,  until  now 


446  THE   CBNCI. 

Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 
The  picture  of  its  wish,  and  it  forms  none 
But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to  know, 
Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarred 
Until  it  be  accomplished. 

CAMILLO. 

Art  thou  not 
Most  miserable  ? 

CENCI. 

Why  miserable  ? — 
No.     I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Hardened  ;  which  they  must  be  in  impudence, 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,  I  was  happier  than  I  am,  while  yet 
Manhood  remained  to  act  the  thing  I  thought ; 
While  lust  was  sweeter  than  revenge ;  and  now 
Invention  palls ;  ay,  we  must  all  grow  old : 
But  that  there  yet  remains  a  deed  to  act 
Whose  horror  might  make  sharp  an  appetite 
Duller  than  mine — I'd  do, — I  know  not  what. 
When  I  was  young  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
But  pleasure ;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets : 
Men,  by  St.  Thomas !  cannot  live  like  bees, 
And  I  grew  tired :  yet,  till  I  killed  a  foe, 
And  heard  his  groans,   and  heard  his  children' 

groans, 
Knew  I  not  what  delight  was  else  on  earth, 
Which  now  delights  me  little.     I  the  rather 
Look  on  such  pangs  as  terror  ill  conceals ; 
The  dry,  fixed  eye-ball ;  the  pale,  quivering  lip 
Which  tell  me  that  the  spirit  weeps  within 
Tears  bitterer  than  the  bloody  sweat  of  Christ. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  which  preserves, 
Like  a  strong  prison,  the  soul  within  my  power, 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with- the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain. 


THE    CENCI.  447 

CAMILLO. 

Hell's  most  abandoned  fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt, 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to  me  ; 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  believe  you  not. 

Enter  Andrea. 


My  lord,  a  gentleman  from  Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 

CENCI. 

Bid  him  attend  me  in  the  grand  saloon. 

[Exit  Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell ;  and  I  will  pray 

Almighty  God  that  thy  false,  impious  words 

Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  thee. 

[Exit  Camillo. 

CENCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions  !     I  must  use 
Close  husbandry,  or  gold,  the  old  man's  sword, 
Falls  from  my  withered  hand.     But  yesterday 
There  came  an  order  from  the  Pope  to  make 
Fourfold  provision  for  my  cursed  sons ; 
Whom  I  have  sent  from  Rome  to  Salamanca, 
Hoping  some  accident  might  cut  them  off; 
And  meaning,  if  I  could,  to  starve  them  there. 
I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death  upon 

them ! 
Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  be  worse 
If  dead  and  damned : — then,  as  to  Beatrice — 

[Looking  around  him  suspiciously. 
I  think  they  cannot  hear  me  at  that  door ; 
What  if  they  should  ?     And  yet  1  need  not  speak, 
Though  the  heart  triumphs  with  itself  in  words. 


448  THE    CENCI. 

O,  thou  most  silent  air,  that  shall  not  hear 
What  now  I  think !  Thou,  pavement,  which  I  tread, 
Towards  her  chamber, — let  your  echoes  talk 
Of  my  imperious  step,  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent ! — Andrea ! 

Enter  Andrea  . 


My  lord ! 


Bid  Beatrice  attend  me  in  her  chamber 
This  evening : — no,  at  midnight,  and  alone. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    II. 

A  Garden  of  the  Cencl  Palace. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Orsino,  as  in  conversation. 

BEATRICE. 

Pervert  not  truth, 

Orsino.     You  remember  where  we  held 

That  conversation  ; — nay,  we  see  the  spot 

Even  from  this  cypress ; — two  long  years  are  past 

Since,  on  an  April  midnight,  underneath 

The  moonlight  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine, 

I  did  confess  to  you  my  secret  mind. 

ORSLNO. 

You  said  you  loved  me  then. 

BEATRICE. 

You  are  a  priest  : 
Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 


THK    CKNCI.  449 

OBSINO. 

I  may  obtain 
The  dispensation  of  the  Pope  to  marry. 
Because  I  am  a  priest,  do  you  believe 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some  struck  deer, 
Follows  me  not  whether  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

BEATRICE. 

As  I  have  said,  speak  to  me  not  of  love ; 

Had  you  a  dispensation,  I  have  not ; 

Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 

Whilst  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle  lady 

To  whom  I  owe  life,  and  these  virtuous  thoughts, 

Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to  share. 

Alas,  Orsino  !     All  the  love  that  once 

I  felt  for  you,  is  turned  to  bitter  pain. 

Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  which  you  first 

Broke,  by  assuming  vows  no  Pope  will  loose. 

And  thus  I  love  you  still,  but  holily, 

Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might ; 

And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 

And  it  is  well  perhaps  we  shall  not  marry. 

You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 

That  suits  me  not; — Ah,  wretched  that  I  am  ! 

Where  shall  I  turn  ?     Even  now  you  look  on  me 

As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 

Discovered  that  I  thought  so,  with  false  smiles 

Making  my  true  suspicion  seem  your  wrong. 

Ah  !  No,  forgive  me ;  sorrow  makes  me  seem 

Sterner  than  else  my  nature  might  have  been  ; 

I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts, 

And  they  forebode, — but  what  can  they  forebode 

Worse  than  I  now  endure  ? 

ORSLNO. 

All  will  be  well. 
Is  the  petition  yet  prepared  ?     You  know 
My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice  ; . 


450  THE    CENCI. 

Doubt  not  but  I  will  use  my  utmost  skill 
So  that  the  Pope  attend  to  your  complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

Your  zeal  for  all  I  wish  ? — Ah  me,  you  are  cold  ! 
Your  utmost  skill — speak  but  one  word — 

(Aside.)     Alas ! 
Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  I  am, 
Here  I  stand  bickering  with  my  only  friend  ! 

(To  Orsino.) 
This  night  my  father  gives  a  sumptuous  feast, 
Orsino  ;  he  has  heard  some  happy  news 
From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there, 
And  witli  this  outward  show  of  love  he  mocks 
His  inward  hate.     'Tis  bold  hypocrisy. 
For  he  would  gladlier  celebrate  their  deaths, 
Which  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his  knees : 
Great  God !  that  such  a  father  should  be  mine  ! — 
But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made. 
And  all  our  kin,  the  Cenci,  will  be  there, 
And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 
And  he  has  bidden  me  and  my  pale  mother 
Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array. 
Poor  lady  !    She  expects  some  happy  change 
In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act ;  I  none. 
At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition  : 
Till  when — farewell. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell.  [Exit  Beatrice, 

I  know  the  Pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly  vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 
Of  many  a  wealthy  see  ;  and,  Beatrice, 
I  think  to  win  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  petition : 
He  might  bestow  her  on  some  poor  relation 
Of  his  sixth  cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister, 


THE   CENCI.  451 

And  I  should  be  debarred  from  all  access. 

Then  as  to  what  she  suffers  from  her  father, 

In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration  : 

Old  men  are  testy,  and  will  have  their  way ; 

A  man  may  stab  his  enemy,  or  his  vassal, 

And  live  a  free  life  as  to  wine  or  women, 

And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 

To  a  dull  home,  and  rate  his  wife  and  children ; 

Daughters  and  wives  call  this  foul  tyranny. 

I  shall  be  well  content,  if  on  my  conscience 

There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they  suffer 

From  the  devices  of  my  love — A  net 

From  which  she  shall  escape  not.     Yet  I  fear 

Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-inspiring  gaze, 

Whose  beams  anatomize  me,  nerve  by  nerve, 

And  lay  me  bare,  and  make  me  blush  to  see 

My  hidden  thoughts. — Ah,  no  !  a  friendless  girl 

Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope  : — 

I  were  a  fool  not  less  than  if  a  panther 

Were  panic-stricken  by  the  antelope's  eye, 

If  she*  escape  me.  [Exit. 


SCENE    III. 

A  magnificent  Hall  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

A  Banquet.     Enter  Cexci,  Lucretia,  Beatrice, 
Orslno,  Camillo,  Nobles. 

cenci. 
W-leome,  my  friends  and  kinsmen  ;  welcome  ye, 
Princes  and  Cardinals,  Pillars  of  the  church, 
Whose  presence  honours  our  festivity. 
I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  anchorite, 
And.  in  my  absence  from  your  merry  meetings, 
An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad   of  me  : 
But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends. 


452  THE    (I  Ml. 

When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment  here, 
And  heard  the  pious  eause  for  which  'tis  given, 
And  we  have  pledged  a  health  or  two  together, 
Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as  you ; 
Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so, 
But  tender-heartqd,  meek  and  pitiful. 

FIRST   GUEST. 

In  truth,  my  lord,  you  seem  too  light  of  heart, 
Too  sprightly  and  companionable  a  man, 
To  act  the  deeds  that  rumour  pins  on  you. 

[  To  his  companion. 
I  never  saw  such  blithe  and  open  cheer 
In  any  eye ! 

SECOND    GUEST. 

Some  most  desired  event, 
In  which  we  all  demand  a  common  joy. 
Has  brought  us  hither  ;  let  us  hear  it,  Count. 

CENCI. 

It  is  indeed  a  most  desired  event. 
If,  when  a  parent,  from  a  parent's  heart. 
Lifts  from  this  earth  to  the  great  Father  of  all 
A  prayer,  both  when  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep, 
And  when  he  rises  up  from  dreaming  it ; 
One  supplication,  one  desire,  one  hope, 
That  he  would  grant  a  wish  for  his  two  sons, 
Even  all  that  he  demands  in  their  regard — 
And  suddenly,  beyond  his  dearest  hope, 
It  is  accomplished,  he  should  then  rejoice, 
And  call  his  friends  and  kinsmen  to  a  feast, 
And  task  their  love  to  grace  his  merriment, 
Then  honour  me  thus  far — for  I  am  he. 

BEATRICE  (to  LuCRETIA). 

Great  God!    How  horrible  !  Some  dreadful  ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 


THE    CEXCI.  453 


Fear  not,  child, 
He  speaks  too  frankly. 

BEATRICE. 

Ah  !   My  blood  runs  cold. 
I  fear  that  wicked  laughter  round  his  eye, 
Which  wrinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the  hair 

CENCT. 

Here  are  the  letters  brought  from  Salamanca ; 

Beatrice,  read  them  to  your  mother.     God, 

I  thank  thee !     In  one  night  didst  thou  perform. 

By  ways  inscrutable,  the  thing  I  sought. 

My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sons 

Are  dead  ! — Why  dead ! — What  means  this  change 

of  cheer  ? 
You  hear  me  not,  I  tell  you  they  are  dead ; 
And  they  will  need  no  food  or  raiment  more : 
The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark  way 
Are  their  last  cost.     The  Pope,  I  think,. will  not 
Expect  I  should  maintain  them  in  their  coffins. 
Rejoice  with  me — my  heart  is  wondrous  glad. 

Beatrice.      (Lucretia  sinks,  half  fainting ;  Beatrice 
supports  her.) 

It  is  not  true  ! — Dear  lady,  pray  look  up. 
Had  it  been  true,  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven, 
He  would  not  live  to  boast  of  such  a  boon. 
Unnatural  man,  thou  knowest  that  it  is  false. 


Ay,  as  the  word  of  God ;  whom  here  I  call 
To  witness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth ; — 
And  whose  most  favouring  providence  was  shown 
Even  in  the  manner  of  their  deaths.     For  Rocco 
Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with  sixteen  others, 
When   the    Church   fell    and    crushed   him   to   i 


454  THE    CENCI. 

The  rest  escaped  unhurt.     Cristofano 
Was  stabbed  in  error  by  a  jealous  man, 
"Whilst  she  he  loved  was  sleeping  with  his  rival; 
All  in  the  self-same  hour  of  the  same  night ; 
Which  shows  that  Heaven  has  special  care  of  me. 
I  beg  those  friends  who  love  me,  that  they  mark 
The  day  a  feast  upon  their  calendars. 
It  was  the  twenty-seventh  of  December: 
Ay,  read  the  letters  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 
[  The  assembly  appears  confused;  several  of  ike  yuests  rise. 

FIRST   GUEST. 

Oh,  horrible  !  I  will  depart. — 

SECOND    GUEST. 

And  I.— 

THIRD    GUEST. 

No,  stay ! 
I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest ;  though  faith, 
'Tis  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly. 
I  think  his  son  has  married  the  Infanta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  El  Dorado : 
'Tis  but  to  season  some  such  news ;  stay,  stay ! 
I  see  'tis  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 

CEXCi  {filing  a  bowl  of  wine,  and  lifting  it  up). 
Oh,  thou  bright  wine,  whose  purple  splendour  leaps 
And  bubbles  gaily  in  this  golden  bowl 
Under  the  lamp-light,  as  my  spirits  do, 
To  hear  the  death  of  my  accursed  sons  ! 
Could  I  believe  thou  wert  their  mingled  blood, 
Then  would  I  taste  thee  like  a  sacrament, 
And  pledge  with  thee  the  mighty  Devil  in  Hell ; 
Who,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say. 
Climb  with  swift  wings  after  their  children's  souls, 
And  drag  them  from  the  very  throne  of  Heaven, 
Now  triumphs  in  my  triumph  ! — But  thou  art 
Superfluous ;  I  have  drunken  deep  of  joy, 


THE    CEXCI.  455 

And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 
Here,  Andrea !     Bear  the  bowl  around. 

A  guest  (rising). 

Thou  wretch ! 
Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandoned  villain  ? 

CAMILLO. 

For  God's  sake, 
Let  me  dismiss  the  guests  !     You  are  insane, 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

SECOND    GUEST. 

Seize,  silence  him ! 

FIRST   GUEST. 

I  will! 

THIRD    GUEST. 

And  I! 

cenci  (addressing  those  who  rise  with  a  tlireatening  gesture). 

Who  moves  ?     Who  speaks  ? 

[  Turning  to  the  Company. 

Tis  nothing, 
Enjoy  yourselves. — Beware  !  for  my  revenge 
Is  as  the  sealed  commission  of  a  king, 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  murderer. 
[  The  Banquet  is  broken  up ;  several  of  the  Guests  are  departing. 

BEATRICE. 

I  do  entreat  you,  go  not,  noble  guests  ; 
What  although  tyranny  and  impious  hate 
Stand  sheltered  by  a  father's  hoary  hair  ? 
What  if  'tis  he  who  clothed  us  in  these  limbs 
Who  tortures  them,  and  triumphs  ?     What,  if  we, 
The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own  flesh, 
His  children  and  his  wife,  whom  he  is  bound 


456  THE    CENCI. 

To  love  and  shelter?     Shall  we  therefore  find 
No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  ? 
Oh,  think  what  deep  wrongs  must  have  blotted  out 
First  love,  then  reverence  in  a  child's  prone  mind, 
Till  it  thus  vanquish  shame  and  fear  !  Oh,  think  ! 
I  have  borne  much,  and  kissed  the  sacred  hand 
Which  crushed  us  to  the  earth,  and  thought  its 

stroke 
Was  perhaps  some  paternal  chastisement ! 
Have  excused  much,  doubted ;  and  when  no  doubt 
Remained,  have  sought  by  patience,  love  and  tears, 
To  soften  him ;  and  when  this  could  not  be, 
I  have  knelt  down  through  the  long  sleepless  nights, 
And  lifted  up  to  God,  the  father  of  all, 
Passionate  prayers  :  and  when  these  were  not  heard, 
I  have  still  borne  ; — until  I  meet  you  here, 
Princes  and  kinsmen,  at  this  hideous  feast 
Given  at  my  brothers'  deaths.     Two  yet  remain, 
His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom  if  ye  save  not, 
Ye  may  soon  share  such  merriment  again 
As  fathers  make  over  their  children's  graves. 
Oh !  Prince  Colonna,  thou  art  our  near  kinsman  ; 
Cardinal,  thou  art  the  Pope's  chamberlain ; 
Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciary ; 
Take  us  away ! 

cenci.  {He  has  been  conversing  with  Camillo  during  the 
first  part  of  Beatrice's  speech;  he  hears  the  conclusion, 
and  now  advances. ) 

I  hope  my  good  friends  here 
Will  think  of  their  own  daughters — or  perhaps 
Of  their  own  throats — before  they  lend  an  ear 
To  this  wild  girl. 

Beatrice  {not  noticing  the  words  of  Cenci). 
Dare  no  one  look  on  me  ? 
None  answer  ?     Can  one  tyrant  overbear 
The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men  ? 
Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 


THE    CEXCI.  457 

Of  scrupulous  law,  that  ye  deny  my  suit  ? 
Oh,  God  !  that  I  were  buried  with  my  brothers  ! 
And  that  the  flowers  of  this  departed  spring 
Were  fading  on  my  grave  !  and  that  my  father 
Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all ! 

CA3IILLO. 

A  bitter  wish  for  one  so  young  and  gentle ; 
Can  we  do  nothing  ? — 

COLONNA. 

Nothing  that  I  see. 
Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy : 
Yet  I  would  second  any  one. 

A  CARDINAL. 

And! 

CENCI. 

Retire  to  your  chamber,  insolent  girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire  thou,  impious  man  !     Ay,  hide  thyself 
Where  never  eye  can  look  upon  thee  more  ! 
Wouldst  thou  have  honour  and  obedience, 
Who  art  a  torturer  ?     Father,  never  dream, 
Though  thou  mayst  overbear  this  company, 
But  ill  must  come  of  ill. — Frown  not  on  me  ! 
Haste,  hide  thyself,  lest  with  avenging  looks 
My  brothers'  ghosts   should   hunt   thee  from  thy 

seat ! 
Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 
And  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  human  step : 
Seek  out  some  dark  and  silent  corner,  there, 
Bow  thy  white  head  before  offended  God, 
And  we  will  kneel  around,  and  fervently 
Pray  that  he  pity  both  ourselves  and  thee. 


My  friends,  I  do  lament  this  insane  girl 


458  THE  (T.xcr. 

Has  spoilt  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 
Good  night,  farewell ;  I  will  not  make  you  longer 
Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 
Another  time. — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 
My  brain  is  swimming  round; 
Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

{To  Beatrice.)     Thou  painted  viper  ! 
Beast  that  thou  art !     Fair  and  yet  terrible  ! 
I  know  a  charm  shall  make  thee  meek  and  tame, 
Now  get  thee  from  my  sight !  [Exit  Beatrice. 

Here,  Andrea, 
Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.     I  said 
I  would  not  drink  this  evening,  but  I  must ; 
For,  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking  what  I  have  decreed  to  do. 

[Drinking  the  icine. 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose  stern, 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villanv  ; 
As  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  children's  blood 
Which  I  did  thirst  to  drink.     The  charm  works 

well ; 
It  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done,  I  swear  ! 

[  Exit 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 
Enter  Lucretia  and  Bernardo. 

LUCRETIA. 

Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy ;  he  struck  but  me, 
Who  have  borne  deeper  wrongs.     In  truth,  if  he 
Had  killed  me,  he  had  done  a  kinder  deed. 


the  cexci.  459 

Oh,  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us, 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee ! 
Yet  weep  not ;  though  I  love  you  as  my  own, 
I  am  not  your  true  mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  more,  more 
Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child, 
That  have  you  been  to  me  !     Had  he  not  been 
My  father,  do  you  think  that  I  should  weep  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas !  poor  boy,  what  else  couldst  thou  have  done ! 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Beatrice  (in  a  hurried  voice). 
Did    he    pass   this  way  ?      Have  you   seen    him, 

brother  ? 
Ah !  no,  that  is  his  step  upon  the  stairs  ; 
"Us  nearer  now  ;  his  hand  is  on  the  door ; 
Mother,  if  I  to  thee  have  ever  been 
A  duteous  child,  now  save  me  !     Thou,  great  God, 
Whose  image  upon  earth  a  father  is, 
Dost  thou  indeed  abandon  me  '?     He  comes  ; 
The  door  is  opening  now ;  I  see  his  face ; 
He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on  me, 
Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thou  art  ! 
'Tis  but  Orsino's  servant. — Well,  what  news  ? 

SERVANT. 

My  master  bids  me  say.  the  Holy  Father 
Has  sent  back  your  petition  thus  unopened. 

[  Giving  a  Paper. 
And  he  demands  at  what  hour  'twere  secure 
To  visit  you  again  ? 


460  THE    CENCI. 

LUCRKTIA. 

At  the  Ave  Mary. 

[Exit  Servant. 
So,  daughter,  our  last  hope  has  failed ;  ah  me, 
How  pale  you  look  !  you  tremble,  and  you  stand 
Wrapped  in  some  fixed  and  fearful  meditation, 
As  if  one  thought  were  over  strong  for  you : 
Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare  ;  oh,  dearest  child ! 
Are  you  gone  mad  ?     If  not,  pray  speak  to  me. 

BEATRICE. 

You  see  I  am  not  mad ;  I  speak  to  you. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  talked  of  something  that  your  father  did 
After  that  dreadful  feast  ?     Could  it  be  worse 
Than  when  he  smiled,  and  cried,  My  sons  are  dead  ! 
And  every  one  looked  in  his  neighbour's  face 
To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he  ? 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke  I  felt  the  blood 
Rush  to  my  heart,  and  fell  into  a  trance ; 
And  when  it  past  I  sat  all  weak  and  wild ; 
Whilst  you  alone  stood  up,  and  with  strong  words 
Check'd  his  unnatural  pride  ;  and  I  could  see 
The  devil  was  rebuked  that  lives  in  him. 
Until  this  hour  thus  you  have  ever  stood 
Between  us  and  your  father's  moody  wrath 
Like  a  protecting  presence  :  your  firm  mind 
Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence : 
What  can  have  thus  subdued  it '?     What  can  now 
Have  given  you  that  cold  melancholy  look, 
Succeeding  to  your  unaccustomed  iear  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  is  it  that  you  say  ?     I  was  just  thinking 
'Twere  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 
Men,  like  my  father,  have  been  dark  and  bloody, 
Yet  never — O  !  before  worse  comes  of  it, 
'Twere  wise  to  die  :  it  ends  in  that  at  last. 


THE    CEXCI.  461 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  talk  not  so,  dear  child  !     Tell  ine  at  once 
What  did  your  father  do  or  say  to  you '? 
He  stayed  not  after  that  accursed  feast 
One  moment  in  your  chamber. — Speak  to  me. 

BEIOWRDO. 

Ob,  sister,  sister,  prithee,  speak  to  us  ! 

Beatrice  (speaking  very  sloivly  with  a  forced  calmness). 
It  was  one  word,  mother,  one  little  word ; 
One  look,  one  smile.  [  Wildly, 

Oh  !  he  has  trampled  me 
Under  his  feet,  and  made  the  blood  stream  down 
Mj  pallid  cheeks.     And  he  has  given  us  all 
Ditch-water,  and  the  fever-stricken  flesh 
Of  buffaloes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve, 
And  we  have  eaten.     He  has  made  me  look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo,  when  the  rust 
Of  heavy  chains  has  gangrened  his  sweet  limbs, 
And  I  have  never  yet  despaired — but  now  ! 
What  would  I  say  ?  [Recovering  herself. 

Ah  !  no,  'tis  nothing  new. 
The  sufferings  we  all  share  have  made  me  wild : 
He  only  struck  and  cursed  me  as  he  passed ; 
He  said,  he  looked,  he  did, — nothing  at  all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet  it  disordered  me. 
Alas  !  I  am  forgetful  of  my  duty, 
I  should  preserve  my  senses  for  your  sake. 

LUCRETIA. 

Xay,  Beatrice  ;  have  courage,  my  sweet  girl. 

If  any  one  despairs  it  should  be  I, 

Who  loved  him  once,  and  now  must  live  with  him 

Till  God  in  pity  call  for  him  or  me. 

For  you  may,  like  your  sister,  find  some  husband, 

And  smile,  years  hence,  with  children  round  your 

knees ; 
Whilst  I,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous  coil, 
Shall  be  remembered  only  as  a  dream. 


462  THE    CENCI. 

BEATRICE. 

Talk  not  to  me,  dear  Inly,  of  a  husband. 

Did  you  not  nurse  me  when  my  mother  died? 

Did  you  not  shield  me  and  that  dearest  boy  ? 

And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 

In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  looks, 

To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us  ? 

And  shall  I  now  desert  you  *?     May  the  ghost 

Of  my  dead  mother  plead  against  my  soul, 

If  I  abandon  her  who  filled  the  place 

She  left,  with  more  even  than  a  mother's  love  ! 

BERNARDO. 

And  I  am  of  my  sister's  mind.     Indeed 

I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretchedness, 

Even  though  the  Pope  should  make  me  free  to 

live 
In  some  blithe  place,  like  others  of  my  age, 
With  sports,  and  delicate  food,  and  the  fresh  air. 
Oh,  never  think  that  I  will  leave  you,  mother  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dear,  dear  children  !  [Enter  Cenci  suddenly. 

CENCI. 

What !  Beatrice  here  ? 
Come  hither  !  [She  shrinks  back,  and  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  'tis  fair ; 
Look  up  !     Why,  yesternight  you  dared  to  look 
With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me, 
Bending  a  stern  and  an  inquiring  brow 
On  what  I  meant ;  whilst  I  then  sought  to  hide 
That  which  I  came  to  tell  you — but  in  vain. 

Beatrice  (wildly  staggering  towards  the  door). 
Oh,  that  the  earth  would   gape.      Hide  me,  oh 
God! 

CENCI. 

Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticulate  words 


THE    CENCI.  463 

Fell  from  my  lips,  who  "with  tottering  steps 
Fled  from  your  presence,  as  you  now  from  mine. 
Stay.  I  command  you  !     From  this  day  and  hour 
Never  again,  I  think,  with  fearless  eye, 
And  brow  superior,  and  unaltered  cheek, 
And  that  lip  made  for  tenderness  or  scorn, 
Shalt  thou  strike  dumb  the  meanest  of  mankind ; 
Me  least  of  all.     Now  get  thee  to  thy  chamber, 
Thou  too,  loathed  image  of  thy  cursed  mother. 

[  To  Bernardo. 
Thy  milky,  meek  face  makes  me  sick  with  hate ! 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 
(Aside.)     So  much  has  passed  between  us  as  must 

make 
Me  bold,  her  fearful. — 'Tis  an  awful  thing 
To  touch  such  mischief  as  I  now  conceive : 
So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dewy  bank 
And  try  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet ;  once  in — 
How  the  delighted  spirit  pants  for  joy  ! 

lucretia  {advancing  timidly  towards  him). 
Oh,  husband  !  Pray  forgive  poor  Beatrice, 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

CENCI. 

Nor  you  perhaps  ? 
Nor  that  young  imp,  whom  you  have  taught  by 

rote 
Parricide  with  his  alphabet  ?     Nor  Giacomo  ? 
Nor  those  two  most  unnatural  sons,  who  stirred 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  Pope  ? 
"Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  off: 
Innocent  lambs  !     They  thought  not  any  ill. 
You  were  not  here  conspiring?  you  said  nothing 
Of  how  I  might  be  dungeoned  as  a  madman ; 
Or  be  condemned  to  death  for  some  offence, 
And  you  would  be  the  witnesses  V — This  failing, 
How  just  it  were  to  hire  assassins,  or 
Put  sudden  poison  in  my  evening  drink  ? 


464  THE  CKMr. 

Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine  ? 

Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God, 

And  he  had  sentenced  me,  and  there  were  none 

But  you  to  be  the  executioners 

Of  his  decree  enregistered  in  heaven  ? 

Oh,  no  !     You  said  not  this  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

So  help  me  God, 
"I  never  thought  the  things  you  charge  me  with ! 

OEM  CI. 

If  you  dare  speak  that  wicked  lie  again, 
I'll  kill  you.     What !  it  was  not  by  your  counsel 
That  Beatrice  disturbed  the  feast  last  night  ? 
You  did  not  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 
Against  me,  and  escape,  and  laugh  to  scorn 
What  every  nerve  of  you  now  trembles  at  ? 
You  judged  that  men  were  bolder  than  they  are  ; 
Few  dare  to  stand  between  their  grave  and  me. 

LUCRETIA. 

Look  not  so  dreadfully  !     By  my  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  designed ; 
Nor  do  I  think  she  designed  any  thing 
Until  she  heard  you  talk  of  her  dead  brothers. 


Blaspheming  liar  !  you  are  damned  for  this  ! 
But  I  will  take  you  where  you  may  persuade 
The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  you : 
For  men  shall  there  be  none  but  those  who  dare 
All  things ;  not  question  that  which  I  command. 
On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out :  you  know 
That  savage  rock,  the  Castle  of  Petrella  ? 
'Tis  safely  walled,  and  moated  round  about : 
Its  dungeons  under  ground,  and  its  thick  towers 
Never  told  tales ;   though  they  have   heard   and 
seen 


THE    CENCI.  405 

What  might  make  dumb  things  speak.     Why  do 

you  linger  ? 
Make  speediest  preparation  for  the  journey  ! 

[Exit  Luqketia. 
The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines  ;  I  hear 
A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets  ; 
I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window  panes  : 
It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day  ; 
Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears  ; 
And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole, 
Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 
Come,  darkness  !     Yet,  what  is  the  day  to  me  '? 
And  wherefore  should  I  wish  for  night,  who  do 
A  deed  which  shall  confound  both  night  and  day  ? 
'Tis  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewildering  mist 
Of  horror :  if  there  be  a  sun  in  heaven, 
She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams  ; 
Nor  feel  its  warmth.    Let  her,  then,  wish  for  night ; 
The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 
For  me :  I  bear  a  darker,  deadlier  gloom 
Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air, 
Or  constellations  quenched  in  murkiest  cloud, 
In  which  I  walk  secure  and  unbeheld 
Towards  my  purpose. — Would  that  it  were  done ! 

[Exit. 


SCENE    II. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Vatican. 

Enter  Camillo  and  Giacomo,  in  conversation. 


There  is  an  obsolete  and  doubtful  law, 
By  which  you  might  obtain  a  bare  provision 
Of  food  and  clothing. 
vol.  i.  30 


466  THE    CENCI. 

OIAOOMO. 

Nothing  more  ?     Alas  ! 
Bare  must  be  the  provision  which  strict  law 
Awards,  and  aged  sullen  avarice  pays. 

Why  did  my  father  not  apprentice  me 

To  some  mechanic  trade  V     I  should  have  then 

Been  trained  in  no  high-born  necessities 

Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 

The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman 

Is  heir  to  all  his  incapacities ; 

He  has  wide  wants,  and  narrow  powers.     If  yon. 

Cardinal  Camillo,  were  reduced  at  once 

From   thrice-driven   beds   of  down,  and   delicate 

food, 
An  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces, 
To  that  which  nature  doth  indeed  require  ? — 

CAMILLO. 

Nay,  there  is  reason  in  your  plea  ;  'twere  hard  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Tis  hard  for  a  firm  man  to  bear :  but  1 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of  high  birth, 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father, 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed : 
And  children  who  inherit  her  fine  senses, 
The  fairest  creatures  in  this  breathing  world : 
And  she  and  they  reproach  me  not.     Cardinal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  would  interpose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Though  your  peculiar  case  is  hard,  I  know 
The  Pope  will  not  divert  the  course  of  law. 
After  that  impious  feast  the  other  night 
I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to  check 
Your  father's  cruel  hand  ;  he  frowned,  and  said, 
"  Children  are  disobedient,  and  they  sting 
rrheir  fathers'  hearts  to  madness  and  despair, 


THE    CENCI.  467 

Requiting  years  of  care  with  contumely. 
I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart ; 
His  outraged  love  perhaps  awakened  hate, 
And  thus  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 
In  the  great  war  between  the  old  and  young,  ' 
I,  who  have  white  hairs  and  a  tottering  body, 
Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality." 

Enter  Orsino. 
You,  my  good  lord  Orsino,  heard  those  words. 


What  words  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Alas,  repeat  them  not  again  ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me ;  at  least 
None  but  that  which  I  may  achieve  myself, 
Since  I  am  driven  to  the  brink.     But,  say, 
My  innocent  sister  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorable  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzelin, 
Never  inflicted  on  their  meanest  slave 
What  these  endure  ;  shall  they  have  no  protection  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why,  if  they  would  petition  to  the  Pope, 

I  see  not  how  he  could  refuse  it — yet 

He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 

In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power, 

Being,  as  'twere,  the  shadow  of  his  own. 

I  pray  you  now  excuse  me.     I  have  business 

That* will  not  bear  delay.  [Exit  Camillo. 

GIACOMO. 

But  you,  Orsino, 
Have  the  petition ;  wherefore  not  present  it ! 


«>8  THE   CEXCI. 

ORS1N". 

I  have  presented  it,  and  backed  it  with 
My  earnest  prayers,  and  urgent  interest ; 
It  was  returned  unanswered.     I  doubt  not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it — in  truth  they  might  well  baffle 
Any  belief — have  turned  the  Pope's  displeasure 
Upon  the  accusers  from  the  criminal: 
So  I  should  guess  from  what  Camillo  said. 

GIACOMO. 

My  friend,  that  palace-walking  devil,  Gold, 

Has  whispered  silence  to  his  Holiness : 

And  we  are  left,  as  scorpions  ringed  with  fire. 

What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to  death  ? 

For  he  who  is  our  murderous  persecutor 

Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name, 

Or  I  would —  [Stops  abruptly. 

OESIXO. 

What  ?     Fear  not  to  speak  your  thought. 
Words  are  but  holy  as  the  deeds  they  cover : 
A  priest  who  has  forsworn  the  God  he  serves ; 
A  judge  who  makes  the  truth  weep  at  his  decree ; 
A  friend  who  should  weave  counsel,  as  I  now, 
But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile ; 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems, 
Were  the  profaner  for  his  sacred  name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask  me  not  what  I  think ;  the  unwilling  brain 
Feigns  often  what  it  would  not ;  and  we  trust 
Imagination  with  such  phantasies 
As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words ; 
AVhich  have  no  words,  their  horror  makes  them 

dim 
To  the  mind's  eye.     My  heart  denies  itself 
To  think  what  you  demand. 


THE    CENCI.  469 

ORSINO. 

But  a  friend's  bosom 
Is  as  the  inmost  cave  of  our  own  mind, 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze  of  day, 
And  from  the  all-communicating  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected — 


Spare  me  now ! 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  Avood, 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he, 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be — a  murderer. 
I  know  you  are  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will  I  trust  with  thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would  take 
Lone  counsel  from  a  night  of  sleepless  care. 
Pardon  me,  that  I  say  farewell — farewell ! 
I  would  that  to  my  own  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  of  peace. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell ! — Be  your  thoughts  better  or  more  bold. 

[Exit  Giacomo. 
I  had  disposed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encouragement : 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  'tis  a  trick  of  this  same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  minds. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will 
Dangerous  secrets  :  for  it  tempts  our  powers, 
Knowing   what    must   be   thought,    and    may    be 

done, 
Into  the  depth  of  darkest  purposes : 
So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit ;  even  I, 
Since  Beatrice  unveiled  me  to  myself, 
And  made  me  shrink  from  what  I  cannot  shun, 
Show  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem, 
To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.     I'll  do 


470  THE  cK.xcr. 

As  little  mischief  as  I  can  ;  that  thought 
Shall  fee  the  accuser  conscience.  [After  a  pause. 

Now  what  harm 
If  Cenci  should  be  murdered  ? — Yet,  if  murdered, 
Wherefore  by  me  ?     And  what  if  I  could  take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action  ?     Of  all  earthly  things 
I  fear  a  man  whose  blows  outspeed  his  words ; 
And  such  is  Cenci :  and  while  Cenci  lives 
His  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her. — Oh,  fair  Beatrice  ! 
Would  that  I  loved  thee  not,  or,  loving  thee, 
Could  but  despise  danger,  and  gold,  and  all 
That  frowns  between  my  wish  and  its  effect, 
Or  smiles  beyond  it !     There  is  no  escape : 
Her  bright  form  kneels  beside  me  at  the  alter, 
And  follows  me  to  the  resort  of  men, 
And  fills  my  slumber  with  tumultuous  dreams, 
So  when  I  wake  my  blood  seems  liquid  fire ; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head, 
My  hot  palm  scorches  it :  her  very  name, 
But  spoken  by  a  stranger,  makes  my  heart 
Sicken  and  pant ;  and  thus  unprofitably 
I  clasp  the  phantom  of  unfelt  delights, 
Till  weak  imagination  half  possesses 
The  self-created  shadow.     Yet  much  longer 
Will  I  not  nurse  this  life  of  feverous  hours : 
From  the  unravelled  hopes  of  Giacomo 
I  must  work  out  my  own  dear  purposes. 
I  see,  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all : 
Her  father  dead ;  her  brother  bound  to  me 
By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave ; 
Her  mother  scared  and  unexpostulating 
From  the  dread  manner  of  her  wish  achieved  : 
And   she ! — Once   more   take   courage,   my   faint 

heart ; 
What  dares  a  friendless  maiden  matched  with  thee  ? 
I  have  such  foresight  as  assures  success ; 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever, 


THE    CENCI.  471 

When  dread  events  are  near,  stir  up  men's  minds 

To  black  suggestions  ;  and  he  prospers  best, 

Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 

But  who  can  flatter  the  dark  spirit,  that  makes 

Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts, 

Till  it  becomes  his  slave — as  I  will  do.  [Exit. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Lucretia;  to  her  enter  Beatrice. 

Beatrice  (she  enters  staggering,  and  speaks  wildly). 

Reach  me  that  handkerchief! — My  brain  is  hurt; 
My  eyes  are  full  of  blood ;  just  wipe  them  for  me — 
I  see  but  indistinctly. — 

LUCRETIA. 

My  sweet  child, 
You  have  no  wound ;  'tis  only  a  cold  dew 
That  starts  from  your  dear  brow. — Alas  !  alas  ! 
What  has  befallen ? 

BEATRICE. 

How  comes  this  hair  undone  ? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind  me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast. — O,  horrible  ! 
The  pavement  sinks  under  my  feet !     The  walls 
Spin  round !     I  see  a  woman  weeping  there, 
And  standing  calm  and  motionless,  whilst  I 
Slide  giddily  as  the  world  reels. — My  God ! 
The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  flecked  with  blood ! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black !     The  air 
Is  changed  to  vapours  such  as  the  dead  breathe 


472  THE   CENCI. 

In  charnel-pits  !   Pah  !  I  am  choked  !    There  creeps 

A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 

About  me — 'tis  substantial,  heavy,  thick; 

I  cannot  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 

My  fingers  and  my  limbs  to  one  another, 

And  eats  into  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 

My  flesh  to  a  pollution,  poisoning 

The  subtle,  pure,  and  inmost  spirit  of  life  ! 

My  God !  I  never  knew  what  the  mad  felt 

Before  ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt ! 

[More  wildfa. 
No,  I  am  dead  ! .   These  putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul, 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wandering  air  ! 

[A  pause. 
What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  even  now  V 
'Tis  gone ;  and  yet  its  burthen  remains  here 
O'er  these  dull  eyes — upon  this  weary  heart ! 
O,  world  !  O,  life  !  O,  day  !  O,  misery  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

What  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ?     She  answers  not: 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain, 
But  not  its  cause  ;  suffering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it  sprung. — 

Beatrice  {frantically). 

Like  Parricide- - 
Misery  has  killed  its  father :  yet  its  father 
Never  like  mine — O,  God  !     What  thing  am  I  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dearest  child,  what  has  your  father  done  ? 

BEATRICE   (doubtfully). 

Who  art  thou,  questioner  ?     I  have  no  father. 

[Aside. 
She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on  me, 
It  is  a  piteous  office. 


THE    CEXCI.  473 

f  To  Lucretia,  in  a  slow,  subdued  voice. 
Do  you  know, 
I  thought  I  was  that  wretched  Beatrice 
Men  speak  of,  whom  her  father  sometimes  hales 
From  hall  to  hall  by  the  entangled  hair ; 
At  others,  pens  up  naked  in  damp  cells 
Where  scaly  reptiles  crawl,  and  starves  her  there, 
Till  she  will  eat  strange  flesh.     This  woful  story 
So  did  I  overact  in  my  sick  dreams, 
That  I  imagined — no,  it  cannot  be  ! 
Horrible  things  have  been  in  this  wild  world, 
Prodigious  mixtures,  'and  confusions  strange 
Of  good  and  ill ;  and  worse  have  been  conceived 
Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do.     . 
But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 
As —  [Pauses,  suddenly  recollecting  herself. 

Who  art  thou  'i     Swear  to  me,  ere  I  die 
"With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest — Mother ! 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh! 

My  sweet  child,  know  you — 

BEATRICE. 

Yet  speak  it  not: 
For  then  if  .this  be  truth,  that  other  too 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth, 
Linked  with  each  lasting  circumstance  of  life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away. 
Why  so  it  is.     This  is  the  Cenci  Palace  ; 
Thou  art  Lucretia  ;  I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talked  some  wild  words,  but  will  no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me :  from  this  point  of  time, 
I  am —  [Her  voice  dies  away  faintly. 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas  !  what  has  befallen  thee,  child  V 
What  has  thy  father  done  '! 


474  THE  CENOI. 

BEATRICE. 

What  have  I  done  ? 
Am  T  not  innocent?     Is  it  my  crime 
That  one  with  white  hair,  and  imperious  brow, 
Who  tortured  me  from  my  forgotten  years, 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  himself 
My  father,  yet  should  be  ! — Oh,  what  am  I  ? 
What  name,  what  place,  what  memory  shall  be 

mine  ? 
What  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair  ? 

LUCKETIA. 

He  is  a  violent  tyrant,  surely,  child : 

We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us  free ; 

His  death  or  ours.  ,  But  what  can  he  have  done 

Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury  ? 

Thou  art  unlike,  thyself;  thine  eyes  shoot  forth 

A  wandering  and  strange  spirit.     Speak  to  me, 

Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers  twine 

With  one  another. 


BEATRICE. 

'Tis  the  restless  life 
Tortured  within  them.     If  I  try  to  speak 
I  shall  go  mad.     Ay,  something  must  be  done ; 
What,  yet  I  know  not — something  which  shall  make 
The  thing  that  I  have  suffered  but  a  shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  it; 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying 
The  consequence  of  what  it  cannot  cure. 
Some  such  thing  is  to  be  endured  or  done : 
When  I  know  what,  I  shall  be  still  and  calm, 
And  never  any  thing  will  move  me  more. 
But  now! — Oh  blood,  which  art  my  father's  blood, 
Circling  through  these  contaminated  veins, 
If  thou,  poured  forth  on  the  polluted  earth. 
Could  wash  away  the  crime,  and  punishment 
By  which  I  suffer — no,  that  cannot  be ! 
Many  might  doubt  there  were  a  God  above 


THE    CENCI.  475 


Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die  : 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  in  me. 


It  must  indeed  have  been  some  bitter  wrong ; 
Yet  what,  I  dare  not  guess.     Oh  !  my  lost  child, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sufferings  from  my  fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hide  them  not. 
AVhat  are  the  words  which  you  would  have  me 

speak  ? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of   that   which   has   transformed   me.      I,  whose 

thought 
Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded  up 
In  its  own  formless  horror.     Of  all  words, 
That  minister  to  mortal  intercourse, 
Which  wouldst  thou  hear  ?    For  there  is  none  to  tell 
My  misery :  if  another  ever  knew 
Aught  like  to  it,  she  died  as  I  will  die, 
And  left  it,  as  I  must,  without  a  name. 
Death  !  Death  !    Our  law  and  our  religion  call  thee 
A  punishment  and  a  reward.     Oh,  which 
Have  I  deserved  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  peace  of  innocence ; 
Till  in  your  season  you  be  called  to  heaven. 
Whate'er  you  may  have  suffered,  you  have  done 
No  evil.     Death  must  be  the  punishment 
Of  crime,  or  the  reward  of  trampling  down 
The  thorns  which  God  has  strewed  upon  the  path 
Which  leads  to  immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay,  death — 
The  punishment  of  crime.     I  pray  thee,  God, 


4<b  the  cr.xcr. 

Let  me  not  be  bewildered  while  I  judge. 
If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 
These  limbs,  the  unworthy  temple  of  thy  spirit, 
As  a  foul  den  from  which  what  thou  abhorrest 
May  mock  thee,  unavenged — it  shall  not  be  ! 
Self-murder — no  that  might  be  no  escape, 
For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  Hell  between 
Our  will  and  it. — Oh  !  in  this  mortal  world 
There  is  no  vindication  and  no  law, 
Which  can  adjudge  and  execute  the  doom 
Of  that  through  which  I  suffer. 

Enter  Orsixo. 
(She  apirroaches  him  solemnly).  Welcome,  Friend 

I  have  to  tell  you  that,  since  last  we  met, 
I  have  endured  a  wrong  so  great  and  strange, 
That  neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me  rest. 
Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 
Which  have  no  form,  sufferings  which  have  no 
tongue. 

ORSIXO. 

And  what  is  he  who  has  thus  injured  you  ? 

BEATRICE. 

The  man  they  call  my  father :  a  dread  name. 

ORSIXO. 

It  cannot  be — 

BEATRICE. 

What  it  can  be,  or  not, 
Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  and  it  has  been  ; 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die  ;  but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains  me,  and  the  dread  lest  death  itself 
Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  consciousness 
Of  what  is  yet  unexpiated.     Oh,  speak  ! 


THE    CENCI.  477 


Accuse  bim  of  the  deed,  aud  let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  ice-hearted  counsellor ! 
If"  I  could  find  a  word  that  might  make  known 
The  crime  of  my  destroyer;  and  that  done, 
My  tongue  should  like  a  knife  tear  out  the  secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core  ;  ay,  lay  all  bare, 
So  that  my  unpolluted  fame  should  be 
"With  vilest  gossips  a  stale  mouthed  story  ; 
A  mock,  a  by-word,  an  astonishment : — 
If  this  were  done,  which  never  shall  be  done, 
Think  of  the  offender's  gold,  his  dreaded  hate, 
And  the  strange  horror  of  the  accuser's  tale, 
•Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech ; 
Scarce  whispered,  unimaginable,  wrapt 
In  hideous  hints — Oh,  most  assured  redress  ! 

ORSIXO. 

You  will  endure  it  then  '? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure  ! — Orsino,    • 
It  seems  your  counsel  is  small  profit. 

[  Turns  from  him,  and  speaks  half  to  herself 

Ay, 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 
What  is  this  undistinguishable  mist 
Of  thoughts,  which  rise,  like  shadow  after  shadow, 
Darkening  each  other  ? 

ORSIXO. 

Should  the  offender  live  ? 
Triumph  in  his  misdeed  ?  and  make,  by  use, 
His  crime,  whate'er  it  is,  dreadful  no  doubt, 
Thine  element ;  until  thou  mayest  become 
Utterly  lost ;  subdued  even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permittest  ? 


478  THE   CENCI. 

Beatrice  {to  herself). 

Mighty  (loath  ! 
Thou  double-visaged  shadow  !     Only  judge  ! 
Rightfullest  arbiter ! 

[She  retires,  absorbed  in  thought. 

LUCRETIA. 

If  the  lightning 
Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge — 

ORSINO. 

•Blaspheme  not !     His  high  Providence  commits 
Its  glory  on  this  earth,  and  their  own  wrongs 
Into  the  hands  of  men ;  if  they  neglect 
To  punish  crime — 

LUCRETIA. 

But  if  one,  like  this  wretch, 
Should  mock,  with  gold,  opinion,  law,  and  power ? 
If  there  be  no  appeal  to  that  which  makes 
The  guiltiest  tremble  !     If,  because  our  wrongs, 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange,  and  monstrous, 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief?     Oh,  God  ! 
If,  for  the  very  reasons  which  should  make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer  triumphs  ? 
And  we,  the  victims,  bear  worse  punishment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer  ? 


Think  not 
But  that  there  is  redress  where  there  is  wrong, 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 

LUCRETIA. 

How? 
If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure. 
I  know  not — but  I  think  it  might  be  good 
To— 

ORSINO. 

Why,  his  late  outrage  to  Beatrice ; 


THE    CENCI.  479 

For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  guess, 
As  makes  remorse  dishonour,  and  leaves  her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge : 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  endured ; 
Me,  but  one  counsel — 

LUCRETIA. 

For  we  cannot  hope 
That  aid,  or  retribution,  or  resource 
Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one 
Might  find  them  with  less  need. 

(Beatrice  advances.) 

OBSLN'O. 

Then — 

BEATRICE. 

Peace,  Orsino ! 
And,  honoured  Lady,  while  I  speak,  I  pray, 
That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn, 
Forbearance  and  respect,  remorse  and  fear, 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  life, 
Which  have  been  borne  from  childhood,  but  whicn 

now 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea. 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong, 
Which,  though  it  be  expressionless,  is  such 
As  asks  atonement,  both  for  what  is  past, 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  day  after  day, 
To  load  with  crimes  an  overburthened  soul, 
And  be — what  ye  can  dream  not.     I  have  prayed 
To  God,  and  I  have  talked  with  my  own  heart, 
And  have  unravelled  my  entangled  will, 
And  have  at  length  determined  what  is  right. 
Art  thou  my  friend,  Orsino  ?     False  or  true  '? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 


I  swear 


480  THE    CENCI. 

To  dedicate  my  cunning,  and  my  strength, 
My  silence,' and  whatever  else;  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  think  we  should  devise 
His  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

And  execute  what  is  devised, 
And  suddenly.     We  must  be  brief  and  bold. 

ORSINO. 

And  yet  most  cautious. 

LUCRETIA. 

For  the  jealous  laws 
Would  punish  us  with  death  and  infamy 
For  that  which  it  became  themselves  to  do. 

BEATRICE. 

Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but  prompt.     Orsino, 
What  are  the  means  ? 

ORSINO. 

I  know  two  dull,  fierce  outlaws, 
Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm's,  and  they 
Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice, 
The  meanest  or  the  noblest  life.     This  mood 
Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
AVhat  we  now  want. 

LUCRETIA. 

To-morrow,  before  dawn, 
Cenci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 
Petrella,  in  the  Apulian  Apennines. 
If  he  arrive  there — 

BEATRICE. 

He  must  not  arrive. 


THE    CEKCI.  181 

OKSIXO. 

Will  it  be  dark  before  you  reach  the  tower  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 

BEATRICE. 

But  I  remember 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ravine ;  'tis  rough  and  narrow, 
And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice ; 
And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and'  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down  ; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul  hour  after  hour 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life  ;  yet,  clinging,  leans  ; 
And.  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall :  beneath  this  crag 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns — below, 
You  hear  but  see  not  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm ;  and  high  alone  there  grow, 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag, 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines ;  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 
'Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 

ORSIXO. 

Before  you  reach  that  bridge  make  some  excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 
Until — 

BEATRICE. 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark       No.  it  cannot  be  a  servant's  step  ; 
v<-r..   i.  31 


482  THE    CKNCI. 

It  must  be  Cenci,  unexpectedly 

Returned — make  some  excuse  for  being  here. 

Beatrice  (to  Obsino  as  she  yoes  out). 
That  step  we  hear  approach  must  never  pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  ami  Beatrice. 

ORSINO. 

What  shall  I  do  ? 
Cenci  must  find  me  here,  and  I  must  bear 
The  imperious  inquisition  of  his  looks 
As  to  what  brought  me  hither :  let  me  mask 
Mine  own  in  some  inane  and  vacant  smile. 

Enter  Giacomo,  in  a  hurried  manner. 
How!      Have   you  ventured    thither?    know   you 

then 
That  Cenci  is  from  home  ? 

giacomo. 

I  sought  him  here  ; 
And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

OKSINO. 

Great  God ! 
"Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Ay ! 

Does  my  destroyer  know  his  danger  ?     AVe 
Are  now  no  more,  as  once,  parent  and  child, 
But  man  to  man ;  the  oppressor  to  the  oppressed  ; 
The  slanderer  to  the  slandered ;  foe  to  foe. 
He  has  cast  Nature  off,  which  was  his  shield, 
And  Nature  casts  him  off,  who  is  her  shame  ; 
And  I  spurn  both.     Is  it  a  father's  throat 
Which  I  will  shake  ?  and  say,  I  ask  not  gold ; 
I  ask  not  happy  years  ;  nor  memories 


THIS   CENCI.  483 

Of  tranquil  childhood  ;  nor  home-sheltered  love  ; 
Though  all  these  hast   thou   torn   from   me,  and 

more ; 
But  only  my  fair  fame  ;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  which  I  thought  hidden  from  thy  hate, 
Under  the  penury  heaped  on  me  by  thee ; 
Or  I  will — God  can  understand  and  pardon, 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 

OESIXO. 

Be  calm,  dear  friend. 

GIACOMO. 

Well,  I  will  calmly  tell  you  what  he  did. 

This  old  Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know, 

Borrowed  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me, 

And  then  denied  the  loan ;  and  left  me  so 

In  poverty,  the  which  I  sought  to  mend 

By  holding  a  poor  office  in  the  state. 

It  had  been  promised  to  me,  and  already 

I  bought  new  clothing  for  my  ragged  babes, 

And  my  wife  smiled ;  and  my  heart  knew  repose ; 

AVhen  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  found, 

Conferred  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom  thus 

He  paid  for  vilest  service.     I  returned 

With  this  ill  news,  and  we  sate  sad  together 

Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 

Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 

As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness ;  when  he, 

As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 

Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 

Such  was  God's  scourge  for  disobedient  sons. 

And   then,  that   I   might   strike   him  dumb  with 

shame, 
I  spoke  of  my  wife's  dowry ;  but  he  coined 
A  brief  yet  specious  tale,  how  I  had  wasted 
The  sum  in  secret  riot ;  and  he  saw 
My  wife  was  touched,  and  he  went  smiling  forth. 
And  when  I  knew  the  impression  he  had  made, 


484  THE    CENCI. 

And  felt  my  wife  insult  with  silent  scorn 
My  ardent  truth,  and  look  averse  and  cold, 
I  went  forth  too  :  but  soon  returned  again  ; 
Yet  not  so  soon  but  that  my  wife  had  taught 
My  children  her  harsh  thoughts,  and  they  all  cried, 
"  Give  us  clothes,  father  !     Give  us  better  food  ! 
What  you  in  one  night  squander  were  enough 
For  months ! "     I  looked  and  saw  that  home  was 

hell. 
And  to  that  hell  will  I  return  no  more, 
Until  mine  enemy  has  rendered  up 
Atonement,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me, 
I  will,  reversing  nature's  law — 

ORSINO. 

Trust  me, 
The  compensation  which  thou  seekest  here 
Will  be  denied. 

GIACOMO. 

Then — Are  you  not  my  friend  ? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative, 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand. 
The  other  day  when  we  conversed  together  ? 
My  wrongs  were  then  less.     That  word  parricide, 
Although  I  am  resolved,  haunts  me  like  fear. 

ORSIXO. 

It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the  bare  word 

Is  hollow  mockery.     Mark,  how  wisest  God 

Draws  to  one  point  the  threads  of  a  just  doom, 

So  sanctifying  it :  what  you  devise 

Is,  as  it  were,  accomplished. 

GIACOMO. 

Is  he  dead  ? 

ORSINO. 

His  grave  is  ready.     Know  that  since  we  met 
Cenci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 


the  CEXcr.  48; 

GIACOUO. 

What  outrage  ? 

ORSINO. 

That  she  speaks  not,  but  you  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do, 
From  her  fixed  paleness,  and  the  lofty  grief 
Of  her  stern  brow,  bent  on  the  idle  air, 
And  her  severe  unmodulated  voice, 
Drowning  both  tenderness  and  dread ;  and  last 
From  this ;  that  whilst  her  step-mother  and  I, 
Bewildered  in  our  horror,  talk  together 
"With  obscure  hints ;  both  self-misunderstood, 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our  talk, 
Over  the  truth,  and  yet  to  its  revenge, 
She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look 
Which  told,  before  she  spoke  it,  he  must  die — ■ 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  enough.     My  doubts  are  well  appeased  ; 

There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 

Than  mine ;  there  is  a  holier  judge  than  me, 

A  more  unblamed  avenger.     Beatrice, 

Who  in  the  gentleness  of  thy  sweet  youth 

Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 

A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 

With  needless  tears  !     Fair  sister,  thou  in  whom 

Men  wondered  how  such  loveliness  and  wisdom 

Did  not  destroy  each  other  !     Is  there  made 

Ravage  of  thee  ?     O,  heart,  I  ask  no  more 

Justification  !     Shall  I  wait,  Orsino, 

Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door  ? 

ORSINO. 

Not  so ;  some  accident  might  interpose 
To  rescue  him  from  what  is  now  most  sure  ; 
And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly, 
How  to  excuse  or  to  conceal.     Nay,  listen  : 
All  is  contrived ;  success  is  so  assured 
That— 


48G  THE   CENXI. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 
BEATRICE. 

'Tis  my  brother's  voice  !    You  know  me  not  ? 

GIACOMO. 

My  sister,  my  lost  sister  ! 


Lost  indeed  ! 
I  see  Orsino  has  talked  with  you,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To  speak,  yet  far  less  than  the  truth.    Now,  stay  not, 
He  might  return  :  yet  kiss  me ;  I  shall  know 
That  then  thou  hast  consented  to  his  death. 
Farewell,  farewell !    Let  piety  to  God, 
Brotherly  love,  justice  and  clemency, 
And  all  things  that  make  tender  hardest  hearts, 
Make  thine  hard,  brother.     Answer  not — farewell. 

[Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE    II. 

A  mean  Apartment  in  Giacomo's  House. 

Giacomo,  alone. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  Orsino  comes  not  yet. 

[  Thunder,  and  the  sound  of  a  storm. 
What !  can  the  everlasting  elements 
Feel  with  a  worm  like  man  ?     If  so,  the  shaft 
Of  mercy-winged  lightning  would  not  fall 
On  stones  and  trees.     My  wife  and  children  sleep  : 
They  are  now  living  in  unmeaning  dreams : 
But  I  must  wake,  still  doubting  if  that  deed 
Be  just  which  was  most  necessary.     O, 
Thou  unreplenished  lamp  !  whose  narrow  fire 


THE    CENCI.  487 

Is  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  on  whose  edge 
Devouring  darkness  hovers  !     Thou  small  flame, 
Which,  as  a  dying  pulse  rises  and  falls. 
Still  flickerest  up  and  down,  how  very  soon, 
Did  I  not  feed  thee,  wouldst  thou  fail  and  be 
As  thou  hadst  never  been  !     So  wastes  and  sinks 
Even  now,  perhaps,  the  life  that  kindled  mine  : 
But  that  no  power  can  fill  with  vital  oil 
That  broken  lamp  of  flesh.     Ha !  'tis  the  blood 
Which  fed  these  veins  that  ebbs  till  all  is  cold : 
It  is  the  form  that  moulded  mine,  that  sinks 
Into  the  white  and  yellow  spasms  of  death  : 
It  is  the  soul  by  which  mine  was  arrayed 
In  God's  immortal  likeness  which  now  stands 
Naked  before  Heaven's  judgment-seat ! 

[^  bell  strikes. 

One!   Two! 
The  hours, crawl  on ;  and  when  my  hairs  are  white 
My  son  will  then  perhaps  be  waiting  thus, 
Tortured  between  just  hate  and  vain  remorse; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like  those  which  I  expect.     I  almost  wish 
He  be  not  dead,  although  my  wrongs  are  great ; 
Yet — 'tis  Orsino's  step. 

Enter  Orsixo. 
Speak  ! 


I  am  come 
To  say  he  has  escaped. 

G1ACOMO. 

Escaped  ! 

ORSIXO. 

And  safe 
Within  Petrella.     He  passed  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soou. 


483  Tin;  ci;.\ci. 

GIACOMO. 

Are  we  the  fools  of  such  contingencies  ? 

And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 

The  hours  when  we  should  act?     Then  wind  and 

thunder, 
Which    seemed   to    howl    his   knell,   is   the   loud 

laughter 
With   which   Heaven    mocks   our   weakness !      I 

henceforth 
Will  ne'er  repent  of  aught  designed  or  done, 
But  my  repentance. 

ORSINO. 

See,  the  lamp  is  out. 

GIACOMO. 

If  no  remorse  is  ours  when  the  dim  air 
Has  drank  this  innocent  flame,  why  should  we  quail 
When  Cenci's  life,  that  light  by  which  ill  spirits 
See  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall  sink  for- 
ever ? 
No,  I  am  hardened. 

OKSINO. 

Why,  what  need  of  this  ? 
"Who  feared  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In  a  just  deed  ?     Although  our  first  plan  failed, 
Doubt  not  but  he  will  soon  be  laid  to  rest. 
But  light  the  lamp  ;  let  us  not  talk  i'  the  dark. 

giacomo  {lighting  the  lamp). 
And  yet,  once  quenched,  I  cannot  thus  relume 
My  father's  life  :  do  you  not  think  his  ghost 
Might  plead  that  argument  with  God  V 

OKSINO. 

Once  gone, 
You  cannot  now  recall  your  sister's  peace  ; 
Your  own  extinguished  years  of  youth  and  hope ; 


THE    CEXCI.  489 

Nor  your  wife's  bitter  words  ;  nor  all  the  taunts 
Which,   from   the    prosperous,    weak   misfortune 

takes  ; 
Nor  your  dead  mother  ;  nor — 

GIACOMO. 

O,  speak  no  more  ! 
I  am  resolved,  although  this  very  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it. 


There  is  no  need  of  that.     Listen  :  you  know 

Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 

In  old  Colonna's  time ;  him  whom  your  father 

Degraded  from  his  post  ?     And  Marzio, 

That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived  last  year 

Of  a  reward  of  blood,  well  earned  and  due  ? 

GIACOMO. 

I  knew  Olimpio  ;  and  they  say  he  hated 
Old  Cenci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Marzio  I  know  nothing. 

ORSINO. 

Marzio's  hate 
Matches  Olimpio's.     I  have  sent  these  men, 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request, 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 


GIACOMO. 

Only  to  talk  ? 

OKSINO. 

The  moments  which  even  now 
Pass  onward  to  to-morrow's  midnight  hour, 
May  memorize  their  flight  with  death:   ere  then 
They  must  have  talked,   and  may  perhaps  have 

done, 
And  made  an  end. 


490  THE  CKXCr. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen  !     What  sound  is  that  ? 

ORSINO. 

The  house-dog  moans,  and  the  beams  crack  :  naught 
else. 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  my  wife  complaining  in  her  sleep  : 

I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 

Of  me  ;  and  all  my  children  round  her  dreaming 

That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 

ORSINO. 

Whilst  he 
Who  truly  took  it  from  them,  and  who  fills 
Their  hungry  rest  with  bitterness,  now  sleeps 
Lapped  in  bad  pleasures,  and  triumphantly 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

GIACOMO. 

If  e'er  he  wakes 
Again,  I  will  not  trust  to  hireling  hands — 

ORSINO. 

Why,  that  were  well.    I  must  be  gone  ;  good  night ! 
When  next  we  meet  may  all  be  done  ! 

GIACOMO. 

And  all 
Forgotten  :  Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  ! 

[Iizcunt. 


THE   CEXCT.  491 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  Petrella. 
Enter  Cenci. 

CENCI. 

She  comes  not ;  yet  I  left  her  even  now 
Vanquished  and  faint.     She  knows  the  penalty 
Of  her  delay ;  yet  what  if  threats  are  vain  ? 
Am  I  not  now  within  Petrella's  moat  ? 
Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Rome  V 
Might  I  not  drag  her  by  the  golden  hair  ? 
Stamp  on  her  ?     Keep  her  sleepless,  till  her  brain 
Be  overworn  ?    Tame  her  with  chains  and  famine  ? 
Less  would  suffice.     Yet  so  to  leave  undone 
What  I  most  seek  !     No,  'tis  her  stubborn  will 
Which,  by  its  own  consent,  shall  stoop  as  low 
As  that  which  drags  it  down. 

Enter  Lucretia. 

Thou  loathed  wretch  ! 
Hide  thee  from  my  abhorrence  ;  fly,  begone  ! 
Yet  stay !     Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh, 

Husband  !  I  pray,  for  thine  own  wretched  sake, 
Heed  what  thou  dost.     A  man  who  walks  like  thee 
Through  crimes,   and  through  the  danger  of  his 

crimes, 
Each  hour  may  stumble  o'er  a  sudden  grave. 
And  thou  art  old  ;  thy  hairs  are  hoary  gray  ; 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself  from  death  and  hell, 
Pity  thy  daughter  ;  give  her  to  some  friend 
In  marriage  ;  so  that  she  may  tempt  thee  not 
To  hatred,  or  worse  thoughts,  if  worse  there  be. 


402  tiik  fKxrr. 

CExn. 
What !  like  her  sister,  who  has  found  a  home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  with  prosperity? 
Strange  ruin  .shall  destroy  both  her  and  thee, 
And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may  be 
Rapid,  her  destiny  outspeeds  it.      Go, 
Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood 
Be  changed,  lest  I  should  drag  her  by  the  hair. 

LUCEETIA. 

She  sent  me  to  thee,  husband.     At  thy  presented 
She  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance ; 
And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which  said, 
"  Cenci  must  die  !  let  him  confess  himself! 
Even  now  the  accusing  angel  waits  to  hear 
If  God,  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes, 
Harden  his  dying  heart ! " 


Why — such  things  are  : 
No  doubt  divine  revealings  may  be  made. 
"Tis  plain  I  have  been  favoured  from  above, 
For  when  I  cursed  my  sons,  they  died. — Ay — so — 
As  to  the  right  or  wrong,  that's  talk — repentance — 
Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work. 
And  more  depends  on  God  than  me.    Well — well — 
I  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which  was 
To  poison  and  corrupt  her  soul. 

[A pause;   Lucretia  approaches  anxiously,  and  tJun 
shrinks  back  as  he  speaks. 

One,  two; 
Ay — Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  curse 
Strangled :  and  Giacomo,  I  think,  will  find 
Life  a  worse  Hell  than  that  beyond  the  grave  : 
Beatrice  shall,  if  there  be  skill  in  hate, 
Die  in  despair,  blaspheming :  to  Bernardo, 
He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeathe 
The  memory  of  these  deeds,  and  make  his  youth 
The  sepulchre  of  hope,  where  evil  thoughts 


THE    CEXCT.  493 

Shall  grow  like  weeds  on  a  neglected  tomb. 

When  all  is  done,  out  in  the  wide  Campagna, 

I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold ; 

My  costly  robes,  paintings,  and  tapestries ; 

My  parchments,  and  all  records  of  my  Avealth ; 

And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 

Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  my  name  ; 

"Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 

It*  wearer  bare  as  infamy.     That  done, 

My  soul,  which  is  a  scourge,  will  I  resign 

Into  the  hands  of  him  who  wielded  it ; 

Be  it  for  its  own  punishment  or  theirs, 

He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 

Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound ; 

Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.     Yet, 

Lest  death  outspeed  my  purpose,  let  me  make 

Short  work  and  sure.  [Going. 

LUCRETIA    (Stops  Mm). 

Oh,  stay  !     It  was  a  feint : 
She  had  no  vision,  and  she  heard  no  voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 

CEXCI. 

That  is  well. 
Vile  palterer  with  the  sacred  truth  of  God, 
Be  thy  soul  choked  with  that  blaspheming  lie  ! 
For  Beatrice,  worse  terrors  are  in  store, 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh  !  to  what  will  ? 
What  cruel  sufferings,  more  than  she  has  known, 
Canst  thou  inflict  ? 

CENCI. 

Andrea  !  go,  call  my  daughter, 
And  if  she  comes  not,  tell  her  that  I  come. 
What  sufferings  ?     I  will  drag  her,  step  by  step, 


494  THE   CKNCI. 

Through  infamies  unheard  of  among  men  ; 

She  shall  stand  shelterless  in  the  broad  noon 

Of  public  scorn,  for  acts  blazoned  abroad, 

One  among  which  shall  be — What  ?     Canst  thou 

guess  ? 
She  shall  become  (for  what  she  most  abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  loathing  will,)  to  her  own  conscious  self 
All  she  appears  to  others  ;  and  when  dead, 
As  she  shall  die  unshrived  and  unforgiven, 
A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God, 
Her  corpse  shall  be  abandoned  to  the  hounds ; 
Her  name  shall  be  the  terror  of  the  earth ; 
Her  spirit  shall  approach  the  throne  of  God 
Plague-spotted  with  my  curses.     I  will  make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 

Enter  Andrea. 


ANDREA. 

The  lady  Beatrice — 

CKNCI. 

Speak,  pale  slave  !     What 
Said  she  V 

ANDREA. 

My  lord,  'twas  what  she  looked  ;  she  said : 
"  Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  Hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may  pass ; 
I  will  not/'  [Exit  Andrea. 

CENCI. 

Go  thou  quick,  Lucretia, 
Tell  her  to  come  ;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is  consent :  and  say,  moreover, 
That  if  she  come  not  I  will  curse  her. 

[E.vit  Lucretia. 

Ha! 
With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth  God 


THE    CENCI.  '195 

Panic-strike  armed  victory,  and  make  pale 
Cities  in  their  prosperity  ?     The  world's  Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his  child, 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will  not  the  deaths  of  her  rebellious  brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak  '?     For  I  on  them 
Did  imprecate  quick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  Lucretia. 
Well ;  what  ?     Speak,  wretch  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

She  said,  "  I  cannot  come  ; 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us." 

cexci  (kneeling). 

God! 
Hear  me  !     If  this  most  specious  mass  of  flesh, 
Which    thou   hast   made   my    daughter;    this   my 

'blood, 
This  particle  of  my  divided  being ; 
Or  rather,  this  my  bane  and  my  disease, 
Whose  sight  infects  and  poisons  me  ;  this  devil, 
Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell,  was  meant 
To  aught  good  use  ;  if  her  bright  loveliness 
Was  kindled  to  illumine  this  dark  world ; 
If  nursed  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love, 
Such  virtues  blossom  in  her  as  should  make 
The  peace  of  life,  I  pray  thee  for  my  sake, 
As  thou  the  common  God  and  Father  art 
Of  her,  and  me,  and  all ;  reverse  that  doom  ! 
Earth,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her  food  be 
Poison,  until  she  be  encrusted  round 
With  leprous  stains  !  Heaven,  rain  upon  her  head 
The  blistering  drops  of  the  Maremma's  dew, 
Till  she  be  speckled  like  a  toad ;  parch  up 
Those  love-enkindled  lips,  warp  those  fine  limbs 
To  loathed  lameness  !     All-beholding  sun, 


496  tfik  (  i;\ci. 

Strike  in  thine  envy  those  life-darting  eyes, 
With  tliine  own  blinding  beams  ! 

L.UCKKTIA. 

Peace !  peace  I 
For  thine  own  sake  unsay  those  dreadful  words. 
When  high  God  grants,  he  punishes  sueh  prayer*. 

CENCI    (leaping  up,   and  throwing  his   right    hand   tOlDWrdi 
Heaven.) 

lie  does  his  will,  I  mine  !     This  in  addition, 
That  if  she  have  a  child 


Horrible  thought! 

CENCI. 

That  if  she  ever  have  a  child;  and  thou, 

Quick  Nature!  I  adjure  thee  by  thy  God, 

That  thou  be  fruitful  in  her,  and  increase 

And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  command, 

And  my  deep  imprecation  !     May  it  be 

A  hideous  likeness  of  herself;  that  as 

From  a  distorting  mirror,  she  may  see 

Her  image  mixed  with  what  she  most  abhors, 

Smiling  upon  her  from  her  nursing  breast. 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,  day  by  day,  more  wicked  and  deformed, 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery  : 

And  that  both  she  and  it  may  live,  until 

It  shall  repay  her  care  and  pain  with  hate, 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  unnatural. 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamorous  scoffs 

Of  the  loud  world  to  a  dishonoured  grave. 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse  ?     Go,  bid  her  come, 

Before  my  words  are  chronicled  in  heaven. 

[Exit  LrcRF.TiA. 

I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  man. 
But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 


THE    CENCI.  497 

The  offences  of  some  unremembered  world. 
My  blood  is  running  up  and  down  my  veins ! 
A  fearful  pleasure  makes  it  prick  and  tingle  : 
I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  awe ; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy. 

Enter  Lucretia. 
What?  Speak! 

LUCRETIA. 

She  bids  thee  curse  ; 
And  if  thy  curses,  as  they  cannot  do, 
Could  kill  her  soul — 


She  would  not  come.     'Tis  well, 
I  can  do  both :  first  take  what  I  demand, 
And  then  extort  concession.     To  thy  chamber ! 
Fly.  ere  I  spurn  thee  :  and  beware  this  night 
That  thou  cross  not  my  footsteps.     It  were  safer 
To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 

[licit  Lucretia. 
It  must  be  late  ;  mine  eyes  grow  weary  dim 
With  unaccustomed  heaviness  of  sleep. 
Conscience  !  Oh,  thou  most  insolent  of  lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of  heaven, 
Steeps  not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the  brain 
Which  thinks  thee  an  impostor.     I  will  go, 
First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest, 
Which  will  be  deep  and  calm,  I  feel ;  and  then — 
O,  multitudinous  Hell,  the  fiends  will  shake 
Thine  arches  with  the  laughter  of  their  joy ! 
There  shall  be  lamentation  heard  in  Heaven 
As  o'er  an  angel  fallen ;  and  upon  Earth 
All  good  shall  droop  and  sicken,  and  ill  things 
Shall,  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life, 
Stir  and  be  quickened — even  as  I  am  now. 

vol.  i.  32  [Exit. 


498  THE   CENCI. 

SCENE  n. 

Be/we  the  Castle  of  Petrella. 

Enter  Beatrice  ami  Lucretia  above  on  the  ramparts. 

BEATRICE. 


They  come  not  yet. 


LUCRETIA. 

'Tis  scarce  midnight. 


BEATRICE. 

How  slow 
Behind  the  course  of  thought,  even  sick  with  speed, 
Lags  leaden-footed  Time ! 

LUCRETIA. 

The  minutes  pass — 
If  he  should  wake  before  the  deed  is  done  ? 

BEATRICE. 

O,  mother  !     He  must  never  wake  again. 
What  thou  hast  said  persuades  me  that  our  act 
Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 
Out  of  a  human  form. 

LUCRETIA. 

'Tis  true  he  spoke 
Of  death  and  judgment  with  strange  confidence 
For  one  so  wicked  ;  as  a  man  believing 
In  God,  yet  reeking  not  of  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  to  die  without  confession  ! — 

BEATRICE. 

Oh! 
Believe  that  Heaven  is  merciful  and  just, 


THE    CENCI.  499 

And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 
To  the  amount  of  his  offences. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Makzio,  below. 

LUCRETIA. 

See, 
They  come. 

BEATRICE. 

All  mortal  things  must  hasten  thus 
To  their  dark  end.     Let  us  go  down. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice  from  above, 

OLIMPIO. 

How  feel  you  to  this  work  ? 

MARZIO. 

As  one  who  thinks 
A  thousand  crowns  excellent  market  price 
For  an  old  murderer's  life.     Your  cheeks  are  pale. 

OLIMPIO. 

It  is  the  white  reflection  of  your  own, 
Which  you  call  pale. 

MARZIO. 

Is  that  their  natural  hue  ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Or  'tis  my  hate,  and  the  deferred  desire 
To  wreak  it,  which  extinguishes  their  blood. 

MARZIO. 

You  are  inclined  then  to  this  business  ? 


OLIMPIO. 

Ay. 
If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand  crowns 


500  THE    CENCI. 

To  kill  a  serpent  which  had  stung  my  child, 
I  could  not  be  more  willing. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia  below. 

Noble  ladies  ! 


Are  ye  resolved  ? 


BEATRICE. 


OLIMPIO. 

Is  he  asleep  ? 


Is  all 


Quiet  ? 


LUCRETIA. 

I  mixed  an  opiate  with  his  drink  : 
He  sleeps  so  soundly — 

BEATRICE. 

That  his  death  will  be 
But  as  a  change  of  sin-chastising  dreams, 
A  dark  continuance  of  the  Hell  within  him, 
Which  God  extinguish  !     But  ye  are  resolved  ? 
Ye  know  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed  ? 


We  are  resolved. 

MARZIO. 

As  to  the  how  this  act 
Be  warranted,  it  rests  with  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Well,  follow  ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Hush !    Hark  !    What  noise  is  that  ? 


THE    CEXCI.  501 

MAKZIO. 

Ha !  some  one  comes  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Ye  conscience-stricken  cravens,  rock  to  rest 
Your  baby  hearts.     It  is  the  iron  gate 
Which  ye  left  open,  swinging  to  the  wind, 
That  enters  "whistling  as  in  scorn.     Come,  follow  ! 
And  be  your  steps  like  mine,  light,  quick,  and  bold. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    III. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

lucretia. 
They  are  about  it  now. 

BEATRICE. 

Xay,  it  is  done. 

LUCRETIA. 

I  have  not  heard  him  groan. 

BEATRICE. 

He  will  not  groan. 

LUCRETIA. 

"What  sound  is  that  ? 

BEATRICE. 

List !  'tis  the  tread  of  feet 
About  his  bed. 

LUCRETIA. 

My  God  ! 

If  he  be  now  a  cold  stiff'  corpse — ■ 


502  THE  <  i:\cr. 


BEATRICE. 

O,  fear  not 
What  may  be  done,  but  what  is  left  undone  : 
The  act  seals  all. 


Entei 

•  Oleupio  and  Marzio. 
Is  it  accomplished  ? 

MARZIO. 

What? 

Did 

you 

not 

call 

OI.IMPIO. 

? 

BEATRICE. 

When  ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Now. 

BEATRICE. 

I  ask  if  all  is  over 

? 

OLIMPIO. 

We  dare  not  kill  an  old  and  sleeping  man  ; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stern  and  reverent  brow, 
His  veined  hands  crossed  on  his  heaving  breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which  he  lay, 
Quelled  me.     Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  do  it. 


But  I  was  bolder ;  for  I  chid  Olimpio, 
And  bade  him  bear  his  wrongs  to  his  own  grave, 
And  leave  me  the  reward.     And  now  my  knife 
Touched  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when  the  old 

man 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  "  God !  hear,  O  hear, 
A  father's  curse  !    What,  art  thou  not  our  father?  ': 
And  then  he  laughed.     I  knew  it  was  the  ghost 


THE    CEXCT.  503 

Of  my  dead  father  speaking  through  his  lips, 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable  slaves  ! 
Where,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man, 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 
With  such  a  deed  undone  ?     Base  palterers  ! 
Cowards  and  traitors !     Why,  the  very  conscience 
Which  ye  would  sell  for  £old  and  for  revenue 

T  '       •  •  •  1  ° 

Is  an  equivocation  :  it  sleeps  over 

A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men  ; 

And  when  a  deed,  where  mercy  insults  Heaven — 

Why  do  I  talk  ? 

[Snatching  a  dagger  from  one  of  them,  and  raising  it. 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say, 
She  murdered  her  own  father,  I  must  do  it ! 
But  never  dream  ye  shall  outlive  him  long  ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Stop,  for  God's  sake  ! 

MARZIO. 

I  will  go  back  and  kill  him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give  me  the  weapon,  we  must  do  thy  will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take  it !     Depart !     Return  ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 
How  pale  thou  art ! 
We  do  but  that  which  'twere  a  deadly  crime 
To  leave  undone. 

LUCRETIA. 

Would  it  were  done  ! 


504  THE   CE&CI. 

BEATRICE. 

Even  whilst 
That  doubt  is  passing  through  your  mind,  the  world 
Is  conscious  of  a  change.     Darkness  and  hell 
Have  swallowed  up  the  vapour  they  sent  forth 
To  blacken  the  sweet  light  of  life.     My  breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied  blood 
Huns  freely  through  my  veins.     Hark  ! 

Enter  Olimho  and  Marzio. 

He  is — 


OLIMPIO. 


Dead ! 


We  strangled  him,  that  there  might  be  no  blood ; 
And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse,  i'  the  garden 
Under  the  balcony  ;  'twill  seem  it  fell. 

Beatrice  {giving  them  a  bag  of  coin). 
Here  take  this  gold,  and  hasten  to  your  homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear  thou  this ! 

[  Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle. 
It  was  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  in  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
Envied  his  state :  so  may  they  envy  thine. 
Thou  wert  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  God 
To  a  just  use.     Live  long  and  thrive  !    And,  mark, 
If  thou  hast  crimes,  repent :  this  deed  is  none. 

[A  horn  is  sounded. 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark,  'tis  the  castle  horn  :  my  God  !  it  sounds 
Like  the  last  trump. 

BEATRICE. 

Some  tedious  jnicst  is  coming 


THE   CEXCI.  505 

LUCRETIA. 

The  drawbridge  is  let  down  ;  there  is  a  tramp 
Of  horses  in  the  court !  fly,  hide  yourselves  ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

BEATRICE. 

Let  us  retire  to  counterfeit  deep  rest ; 

I  scarcely  need  to  counterfeit  it  now ; 

The  spirit  which  doth  reign  within  these  limbs 

Seems  strangely  undisturbed.     I  could  even  sleep 

Fearless  and  calm :  all  ill  is  surely  past. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    IV. 

Another  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  on  one  side  the  Legate  Savella,  introduced  by  a  Ser- 
vant, and  on  the  other  Lucretia  and  Bernardo. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  duty  to  his  Holiness 

Be  my  excuse  that  thus  unseasonably 

I  break  upon  your  rest.     I  must  speak  with 

Count  Cenci ;  doth  he  sleep  ? 

lucretla.  (in  a  hurried  and  confused  manner). 

I  think  he  sleeps ; 
Yet,  wake  him  not,  I  pray,  spare  me  awhile, 
He  is  a  wicked  and  a  wrathful  man ; 
Should  he  be  roused  out  of  his 'sleep  to-night, 
AVhich  is,  I  know,  a  hell  of  angry  dreams, 
It  were  not  well ;  indeed  it  were  not  well. 
Wait  till  daybreak, — 

(Aside.)    O,  I  am  deadly  sick  ! 

SAVELLA. 

I  arieve  thus  to  distress  vou,  but  the  Count 


506  the  CEN'cr. 

Must  answer  charges  of  the  gravesl  import, 
And  suddenly;  such  my  commission  is. 

LUCRETIA  (with  increased  agitation). 
I  dare  not  rouse  him,  I  know  none  who  dare  ; 
'Twere  perilous ; — you  might  as  safely  waken 
A  serpent ;  or  a  corpse  in  which  some  fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  moments  here 
Are  counted.     I  must  rouse  him  from  his  sleep, 
Since  none  else  dare. 

lucretia  (aside). 

O,  terror  !  O,  despair  ! 
( To  Bernardo.)     Bernardo,  conduct  you  the  Lord 

Legate  to 
Your  father's  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Savella  and  Berxardo. 
Enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  a  messenger 
Come  to  arrest  the  culprit  who  now  stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both  Earth  and  Heaven,  consenting  arbiters, 
Acquit  our  deed. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  agony  of  fear  ! 
Would  that  he  yet  might  live  !     Even  now  I  heard 
The  legate's  followers  whisper  as  they  passed 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  instant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means. 
Which  we  must  pay  so  dearly,  having  done. 
Even  now  they  search  the  tower,  and  find  the  body ; 


THE    CEXCI.  507 

Now  they  suspect  the  truth  ;  now  they  consult, 
Before  they  come  to  tax  us  with  the  fact ; 

0  horrible,  'tis  all  discovered ! 

BEATRICE. 

Mother, 
What  is  done  wisely,  is  done  well.     Be  bold 
As  thou  art  just.     'Tis  like  a  truant  child, 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  hast  done, 
Even  from  thine  own  strong  consciousness,  and  thus 
Write  on  unsteady  eyes  and  altered  cheeks 
All  thou  wouldst  hide.     Be  faithful  to  thyself, 
And  fear  no  other  witness  but  thy  fear. 
For  if,  as  cannot  be,  some  circumstance 
Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 
Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astonishment, 
Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltless  pride, 
As  murderers  cannot  feign.     The  deed  is  done, 
And  what  may  follow  now  regards  not  me. 

1  am  as  universal  as  the  light ; 

Free  as  the  earth-surrounding  air ;  as  firm 

As  the  world's  centre.     Consequence,  to  me, 

Is  as  the  wind  which  strikes  the  solid  rock, 

But  shakes  it  not.  [A  cry  within  and  tumult. 

VOICES. 

Murder  !  Murder  !  Murder ! 

Enter  Bernardo  and  Savella. 

SAVELLA  (to  his  followers). 
Go,  search  the  castle  round ;  sound  the  alarm ; 
Look  to  the  gates,  that  none  escape ! 

BEATRICE. 

What  now? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  say — my  father's  dead. 


508  THE    CENd. 


BEATRICE. 

How,  dead  ?  he  only  sleeps ;  you  mistake,  brother. 
His  sleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death ; 
'Tis  wonderful  how  well  a  tyrant  sleeps. 
He  is  not  dead  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Dead ;  murdered ! 

lucretia  (with  extreme  agitation.) 

Oh,  no,  no, 
He  is  not  murdered,  though  he  may  be  dead ; 
I  have  alone  the  keys  of  those  apartments. 

SAVELLA. 

Ha !  Is  it  so  ? 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord,  I  pray  excuse  us ; 
We  will  retire ;  my  mother  is  not  well ; 
She  seems  quite  overcome  with  this  strange  horror. 
[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  suspect  who  may  have  murdered  him  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  think. 


SAVELLA. 

Can  you  name  any 
Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death? 

BERNARDO. 

Alas! 
I  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those  most 
Who  most  lament  that  such  a  deed  is  done  ; 
My  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  myself. 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis  strange  !     There  were  clear  marks  of  violence. 


THE    CENCI.  509 

I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moonlight, 
Hanging  beneath  the  window  of  his  chamber 
Among  the  branches  of  a  pine  :  he  could  not 
Have  fallen  there,  for  all  his  limbs  lay  heaped 
And  effortless  ;  'tis  true  there  was  no  blood. — 
Favour  me,  sir — it  much  imports  your  house 
That  all  should  be  made  clear — to  tell  the  ladies 
That  I  request  their  presence. 

[Exit  Bernardo. 

Enter  Guards,  bringing  in  Marzio. 

guard. 

We  have  one. 


My  lord,  we  found  this  ruffian  and  another 
Lurking  among  the  rocks  ;  there  is  no  doubt 
But  that  they  are  the  murderers  of  Count  Cenci 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin  ;  this  fellow  wore 
A  gold-inwoven  robe,  which,  shining  bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glimmering  moon, 
Betrayed  them  to  our  notice :  the  other  fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

savella. 
What  does  he  confess  ? 


He  keeps  firm  silence ;  but  these  lines  found  on 

him 
May  speak. 

SAVELLA. 

Their  language  is  at  least  sincere. 

[Beads. 

"  To  the  Lady  Beatrice. 
"  That  the  atonement  of  what  my  nature  sickens 
to  conjecture  may  soon  arrive,  I  send  thee,  at  thy 


510  mi:  ckxci. 

brother's  desire,  those  who  will  speak  and  do  more 
than  I  dare  write. 

"  Thv  devoted  servant, 

••  Orsiro." 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Bernardo. 
Knowest  thou  this  writing,  lady  ? 


BEATRICE. 
SAVELLA. 


No. 

Nor  thou  ? 


lucretia  {her  conduct  throughout  the  scene  is  marked  by 
extreme  agitation). 

Where  was  it  found  ?     What  is  it  ?     It  should  be 
Orsino's  hand !     It  speaks  of  that  strange  horror 
Which  never  yet  found  utterance,  but  which  made 
Between  that  hapless  child  and  her  dead  father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

SAVELLA. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Is  it  true,  lady,  that  thy  father  did 
Such  outrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Unfilial  hate  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Not  hate,  'twas  more  than  hate  ; 
This  is  most  true,  yet  wherefore  question  me  ? 

SAVELLA. 

There  is  a  deed  demanding  question  done  ; 
Thou  hast  a  secret  which  will  answer  not. 

BEATRICE. 

What  sayest  ?     My  lord,  your  words  are  bold  and 
rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I  do  arrest  all  present  in  the  name 

Of  the  Pope's  Holiness.     You  must  to  Rome. 


THE    C'F.XCI.  511 

LUCKETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome  !     Indeed  we  are  not  guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty  !     Who  dares  talk  of  guilt  ?     My  lord, 
1  am  more  innocent  of  parricide 
Than  is  a  child  born  fatherless.     Dear  mother, 
Your  gentleness  and  patience  are  no  shield 
For  this  keen-judging  world,  this  two-edged  lie, 
Which   seems,  but   is   not.     What !    will    human 

laws. 
Rather  will  ye  who  are  their  ministers, 
Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first, 
And  then,  when  Heaven  doth  interpose  to  do 
What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  things 
To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime, 
Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 
Culprits  ?     'Tis  ye  are  culprits  !    That  poor  wretch 
Who  stands  so  pale,  and  trembling,  and  amazed, 
If  it  be  true  he  murdered  Cenci,  was 
A  sword  in  the  right  hand  of  justest  God. 
Wherefore  should  I  have  wielded  it  V  unless 
The  crimes  which  mortal  tongue  dare  never  name, 
God  therefore  scruples  to  avenge. 

SAVELLA. 

You  own 
That  you  desired  his  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

It  would  have  been 
A  crime  no  less  than  his.  if  for  one  moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'Tis  true  I  did  believe,  and  hope,  and  pray. 
Ay,  I  even  knew — for  God  is  wise  and  just, 
That  some  strange  sudden  death  hung  over  him. 
'Tis  true  that  this  did  happen,  and  most  true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
No  other  hope  in  Heaven  ; — now  what  of  this  ? 


512  THE   CENCI. 

SAVELLA. 

Strange  thoughts  beget  strange  deeds ;  and  here 

are  both : 
I  judge  thee  not. 

BEATRICE. 

And  yet,  if  you  arrest  me, 
You  are  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of  that  which  is  the  life  of  life :  the  breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name, 
And  leaves  for  lame  acquittal  the  poor  life 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.     'Tis  most  false 
That  I  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide  ; 
Although  I  must  rejoice,  for  justest  cause, 
That  other  hands  have  sent  my  father's  soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  me. 
Now  leave  us  free  :  stain  not  a  noble  house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime ; 
Add  to  our  sufferings  and  your  own  neglect 
No  heavier  sum ;  let  them  have  been  enough : 
Leave  us  the  wreck  we  have. 

SAVELLA. 

I  dare  not,  lady. 
I  pray  that  you  prepare  yourselves  for  Rome ; 
There  the  Pope's  further  pleasure  will  be  known. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome  !  O  take  us  not  to  Rome  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why  not  to  Rome,  dear  mother  ?     There,  as  here, 
Our  innocence  is  as  an  armed  heel 
To  trample  accusation.     God  is  there, 
As  here,  and  with  his  shadow  ever  clothes 
The  innocent,  the  injured,  and  the  weak ; 
And  such  are  we.     Cheer  up,  dear  lady  !  lean 
On  me ;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts.    My  lord, 
As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refreshment, 


THE    CENCI.  a  13 

And  had  all  such  examinations  made 
Upon  the  spot,  as  may  be  necessary 
To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter, 
AVe  shall  be  ready.     Mother,  will  you  come  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Ha  !  they  will  bind  us  to  the  rack,  and  wrest 
Self-accusation  from  our  agony  ! 
Will  Giacomo  be  there  ?     Orsino?     Marzio? 
All  present ;  all  confronted ;  all  demanding 
Each  from  the  other's  countenance  the  thing 
Which  is  in  every  heart !     O,  misery  ! 

{She  famts  and  is  borne  out. 

SAVELLA. 

She  faints ;  an  ill  appearance  this. 


My  lord, 
She  knows  not  yet  the  uses  of  the  world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which  grasps 
And  loosens  not:  a  snake  whose  look  transmutes 
All  things  to  guilt,  which  is  its  nutriment. 
She  cannot  know  how  well  the  supine  slaves 
Of  blind  authority  read  the  truth  of  things 
When  written  on  a  brow  of  guilelessness : 
She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 
Stand  at  the  judgment-seat  of  mortal  man, 
A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 
Which  drags  it  there.     Prepare  yourself,  my  lord  ; 
Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  below. 

{Exeunt. 


33 


514  THE    CKNCI. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — An  Apartment  in  Orsino's  Police. 

Enter  Orsino  and  Giacomo. 

GIACOMO. 

Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end  ? 
O  that  the  vain  remorse  which  must  chastise 
Crimes  done,  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to  warn, 
As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  avenge  ! 

0  that  the  hour  when  present  had  cast  off' 
The  mantle  of  its  mystery,  and  shown 

The  ghastly  form  with  which  it  now  returns 
When   its   scared   game   is   roused,  cheering   the 

hounds 
Of  conscience  to  their  prey  !     Alas,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  wicked  thought,  a  piteous  deed, 
To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-headed  father. 

ORSINO. 

It  has  turned  out  unluckily,  in  truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To  violate  the  sacred  doors  of  sleep ; 
To  cheat  kind  nature  of  the  placid  death 
Which  she  prepares  for  overwearied  age ; 
To  drag  from  Heaven  an  unrepentant  soul, 
Which    might    have    quenched    in   reconciling 

prayers 
A  life  of  burning  crimes — 

ORSINO. 

You  cannot  say 

1  urged  you  to  the  deed. 


THE    CF.XCI.  515 

GIACOMO. 

O.  had  I  never 
Found  in  thy  smooth  and  ready  countenance 
The  mirror  of  my  darkest  thoughts ;  hadst  thou 
Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me  look 
Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 
It  grew  familiar  to  desire — 

ORSINO. 

Tis  thus 
Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosperous  acts 
Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve ; 
Or  any  thing  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  you  stand  that  gives  you  this  pale  sick- 
ness 
Of  penitence  ;  confess,  'tis  fear  disguised 
From  its  own  shame  that,  takes  the  mantle  now 
Of  thin  remorse.     What  if  we  yet  were  safe  ? 

GIACOMO. 

How  can  that  be  ?     Already  Beatrice, 
Lucretia,  and  the  murderer,  are  in  prison. 
I  doubt  not  officers  are,  whilst  we  speak, 
Sent  to  arrest  us. 


I  have  all  prepared 
For  instant  flight.     We  can  escape  even  now, 
So  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 

GIACOMO. 

Rather  expire  in  tortures,  as  I  may. 
What !  will  you  cast  by  self-accusing  flight 
Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice  *? 
She  who  alone,  in  this  unnatural  work, 
Stands  like  God's  angel  ministered  upon 
By  fiends  ;  avenging  such  a  nameless  wrong 
As  turns  black  parricide  to  piety ; 


516  Tin-:  ci:.\<r. 

Whilst  we  for  basest  cuds — I  fear,  Orsino, 
While  I  consider  all  your  words  and  looks, 
Comparing  them  with  your  proposal  now, 
That  you  must  be  a  villain.     For  what  end 
Could  you  engage  in  such  a  perilous  crime, 
Training  me  on  with  hints,  and  signs,  and  smiles, 
Even  to  this  gulf?     Thou  art  no  liar?     No, 
Thou  art  a  lie  !     Traitor  and  murderer  ! 
Coward  and  slave  !     But  no— defend  thyself; 

[Drawing. 
Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant  tongue 
Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 

ORSINO. 

Put  up  your  weapon. 
Is  it  the  desperation  of  your  fear 
Makes  you  thus  rash  and  sudden  with  your  friend, 
Now  ruined  for  your  sake  '?     If  honest  anger 
Have  moved  you,  know,  that  what  I  just  proposed 
Was  but  to  try  you.     As  for  me,  I  think 
Thankless  affection  led  me  to  this  point, 
From  which,  if  my  firm  temper  could  repent, 
I  cannot  now  recede.     Even  whilst  we  speak, 
The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below  : 
They  grant  me  these  brief  moments.     Now,  if  you 
Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 
To  speak  to  your  pale  wife,  'twere  best  to  pass 
Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 

GIACOMO. 

Oh,  generous  friend  !    How  canst  thou  pardon  me  ? 
Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine ! 


That  wish 
Now  comes  a  day  too  late.  Haste ;  fare  thee  well ! 
Hear'st  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  ? 

[Exit  Giacomo. 
I'm  sorry  for  it  ;  but  the  guards  are  waiting 


THE    CEXCI.  517 

At  liis  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  contrivance 

That  I  might  rid  me  both  of  him  and  them. 

I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 

Upon  the  painted  scene  of  this  new  world, 

And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 

By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  good  and  ill 

As  others  weave ;  but  there  arose  a  Power 

Which  grasped  and  snapped  the  threads  of  my 

device, 
And  turned  it  to  a  net  of  ruin — Ha  ! 

[A  shout  is  heard. 
Ts  that  my  name  I  hear  proclaimed  abroad  V 
But  I  will  pass,  wrapt  in  a  vile  disguise  ; 
Rags  on  my  back,  and  a  false  innocence 
Upon  my  face,  through  the  misdeeming  crowd, 
Which  judges  by  what  seems.     'Tis  easy  then, 
For  a  new  name,  and  for  a  country  new, 
And  a  new  life,  fashioned  on  old  desires, 
To  change  the  honours  of  abandoned  Rome. 
And  these  must  be  the  masks  of  that  within. 
Which  must  remain  unaltered. — Oh,  I  fear 
That  what  is  past  will  never  let  me  rest ! 
Why,  when  none  else  is  conscious,  but  myself, 
Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's  contempt 
Trouble  me  ?     Have  I  not  the  power  to  fly 
My  own  reproaches  ?     Shall  I  be  the  slave 
Of — what  ?     A  word !    which   those  of  this  false 

world 
Employ  against  each  other,  not  themselves  ; 
As  men  wear  daggers  not  for  self-offence. 
But  if  I  am  mistaken,  where  shall  I 
Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself, 
As  now  I  skulk  from  every  other  eye  ? 

[Exit. 


518  THE   CENCI. 

SCENE    II. 

A  Hall  of  Justice. 

Camillo,  Judges,  etc.,  are  discovered  seated;    Marzio 
is  led  in. 

FIRST   JUDGE. 

Accused,  do  you  persist  in  your  denial  ? 
I  ask  you,  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty  ? 
I  demand  who  were  the  participators 
In  your  offence  ?      Speak   truth,  and  the  whole 
truth. 

MARZIO. 

My  God  !    I  did  not  kill  him  ;   I  know  nothing  ; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  infer  my  guilt. 

SECOND   JUDGE. 

Away  with  him  ! 

FIRST   JUDGE. 

Dare  yon,  with  lips  yet  white  from  the  rack's  kiss, 
Speak  false  ?     Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner, 
That  you  would  bandy  lovers'  talk  with  it, 
Till  it  wind  out  your  life  and  soul  ?     Away  ! 

MARZIO. 

Spare  me  !     O,  spare  !     I  will  confess. 

Then  speak. 


FIRST   JUDGE. 


MARZIO. 

I  strangled  him  in  his  sleep. 


FIRST   JUDGE. 

Who  urged  you  to  it  ? 


THE    CENCI.  ol'.) 

MARZIO. 

His  own  son  Giaeomo.  and  the  young  prelate 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Petrella  :  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  Lucretia 
Tempted  me  with  a  thousand  crowns,  and  I 
And  my  companion  forthwith  murdered  him. 
Now  let  me  die. 

FIRST   JUDGE. 

This  sounds  as  bad  as  truth.     Guards,  there, 
Lead  forth  the  prisoners. 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

Look  upon  this  man  ; 
When  did  you  see  him  last  ? 

BEATRICE. 

We  never  saw  him. 

MAP.ZIO. 

You  know  me  too  well,  Lady  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

I  know  thee  !     How  !  where  ?  when  ? 

MARZIO. 

You  know  'twas  I 
Whom  you  did  urge  with  menaces  and  bribes 
To  kill  your  father.     When  the  thing  was  done, 
You  clothed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold, 
And  bade  me  thrive :  how  I  have  thriven,  you  see. 
You,  my  Lord  Giacomo.  Lady  Lucretia, 
You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 

[Beatrice  advances  towards  him;  he  covers  his  jace, 
and  shrinks  back. 

Oh,  dart 
The  terrible  resentment  of  those  eyes 
On  the  dread  earth  !     Turn  them  awav  from  me ! 


520  THE    CENCI. 

They  wound :  'twas  torture  forced  the  truth.     My 

Lords, 
Having  said  this,  let  me  be  led  to  death. 

BEATRICE. 

Poor  wretch,  I  pity  thee  :  yet  stay  awhile. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards,  lead  him  not  away. 

BEATRICE. 

Cardinal  Camillo, 
You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 
And  wisdom  :  can  it  be  that  you  sit  here 
To  countenance  a  wicked  farce  like  this  ? 
When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave  is  dragged 
From   sufferings  which  might  shake  the  sternest 

heart, 
And  bade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes, 
But  as  those  may  suspect  or  do  desire, 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own  reply : 
And  that  in  peril  of  such  hideous  torments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damned.     Speak 

now 
The  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is,  that  you, 
If  your  fine  frame  were  stretched  upon  that  wheel, 
And  you  were  told,  "  Confess  that  you  did  poison 
Your  little  nephew :   that  fair  blue-eyed  child 
Who  was  the  load-star  of  your  life ; "  and  though 
All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piteous  death, 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and 

time, 
And  all  the  things  hoped  for  or  done  therein, 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceeding  grief, 
Yet  you  would  say,  "  I  confess  any  thing  " — 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,  like  that  slave, 
The  refuge  of  dishonourable  death. 
I  pray  thee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 


THE    CENCI.  521 

camillo  (much  moved). 
What  shall  we  think,  my  lords  ? 
Shame  on  these  tears  !     I  thought  the  heart  was 

frozen 
Which  is  their  fountain.     I  would  pledge  my  soul 
That  she  is  guiltless. 

JUDGE. 

Yet  she  must  be  tortured. 

CAMILLO. 

I  would  as  soon  have  tortured  mine  OAvn  nephew 
(If  he  now  lived,  he  would  be  just  her  age  ; 
His  hair,  too,  was  her  colour,  and  his  eyes 
Like  hers  in  shape,  but  blue,  and  not  so  deep :) 
As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  love 
That  ever  came  sorrowing  upon  the  earth. 
She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infancy  ! 

JUDGE. 

Well,  be  her  purity  on  your  head,  my  lord, 
If  yon  forbid  the  rack.     His  Holiness 
Enjoined  us  to  pursue  this  monstrous  crime 
By  the  severest  forms  of  law  ;  nay,  even 
To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 
The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide, 
Upon  such  evidence  as  justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE. 

What  evidence  ?     This  man's  ? 


Even  so. 

BEATRICE  (to  MARZIO). 

Come  near.     And  who  art  thou,  thus  chosen  forth 
Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men, 
To  kill  the  innocent  ? 


522  THE    CENCI. 


MABZIO. 

I  am  Marzio. 


Thv  father's  vassal. 


BEATRICE. 

Fix  thine  ores  on  mine  ; 
Answer  to  what  I  ask.  [  Turning  to  the  Judge*. 

I  prithee  mark 
His  countenance  :  unlike  bold  calumny, 
Which  sometimes  dares  not  speak  the  thing  it  looks, 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks,  but  bends 
His  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

(  To  Marzio.)  What !  wilt  thou  say 

That  I  did  murder  my  own  father  ? 


Oh! 
Spare   me  !      My   brain   swims   round — I   cannot 

speak — 
It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth. 
Take  me  away  !     Let  her  not  look  on  me  ! 
I  am  a  guilty  miserable  wretch  ! 
I  have  said  all  I  know ;  now,  let  me  die  ! 

BEATRICE. 

My  lords,  if  by  my  nature  1  had  been 

So  stern,  as  to  have  planned  the  crime  alleged, 

Which  your  suspicions  dictate  to  this  slave, 

And  the  rack  makes  him  utter,  do  you  think 

I  should  have  left  this  two-edged  instrument 

Of  my  misdeed  ;  this  man  ;  this  bloody  knife 

With  my  own  name  engraven  on  the  heft, 

Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of  foes, 

For   my   own   death  ?       That   with   such    horrible 

need 
For  deepest  silence,  I  should  have  neglected 
So  trivial  a  precaution,  as  the  making 
His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 
On  a  thief's  memory  ?     What  is  his  poor  life  ? 


THE    CENCI.  0'23 

What  are  a  thousand  lives?     A  parricide 

Had  trampled  them  like  dust ;  and  see,  he  lives  ! 

[  Turning  to  Marzio. 
And  thou — 

MARZIO. 

Oh,  spare  me.    Speak  to  me  no  more  ! 
That  stern  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn  tones, 
Wound  worse  than  torture. 

(  To  the  Judges.)         I  have  told  it  all ; 
For  pity's  sake  lead  me  away  to  death. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards,  lead  him  nearer  the  Lady  Beatrice, 
He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  autumn's  leaf 
From  the  keen  breath  of  the  serenest  north. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  thou  who  tremblest  on  the  giddy  verge 

Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answerest  me  ; 

So  mayst  thou  answer  God  with  less  dismay : 

What  evil  have  we  done  thee  '?     I,  alas ! 

Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years, 

And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 

First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 

To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope  ;  and 

then 
Stabbed  with  one  blow  my  everlasting  soul, 
And  my  untainted  fame  ;  and  even  that  peace 
Which  sleeps  within  the  core  of  the  heart's  heart. 
But  the  wound  was  not  mortal ;  so  my  hate 
Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 
To  our  great  Father,  who  in  pity  and  love, 
Armed  thee,  as  thou  dost  say.  to  cut  him  off; 
And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusation  : 
And  art  thou  the  accuser  ?     If  thou  hopest 
Mercy  in  heaven,  show  justice  upon  earth  : 
Worse  than  a  bloody  hand  is  a  hard  heart. 
If  thou  hast  done  murders,  made  thy  life's  path 


a  21  THE   CENCI. 

Ovi'i-  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man. 

Rush  not  before  thy  Judge,  and  say  :  "  My  -Maker, 

I  have  done  this  and  more;  for  there  was  one 

Who  was  most  pure  and  innocent  on  earth  ; 

And  because  she  endured  what  never  any, 

Guilty  or  innocent,  endured  before  ; 

Because  her  wrongs  could  not  be  told,  nor  thought ; 

Because  thy  hand  at  length  did  rescue  her ; 

I  with  my  words  killed  her  and  all  her  kin." 

Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 

The  reverence  living  in  the  minds  of  men 

Towards  our  ancient  house,  and  stainless  lame  ! 

Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  pity, 

Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks, 

Till  it  becomes  a  crime  to  suffer.     Think 

What  'tis  to  blot  with  infamy  and  blood 

All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and  is, — 

Hear  me,  great  God  !  I  swear,  most  innocent, — 

So  that  the  world  lose  all  discrimination 

Between  the  sly,  fierce,  wild  regard  of  guilt, 

And  that  which  now  compels  thee  to  reply 

To  what  I  ask  :  Am  I,  or  am  I  not 

A  parricide  1 

MARZIO. 

Thou  art  not ! 


What  is  this  ? 

MARZIO. 

I  here  declare  those  whom  1  did  accuse 
Are  innocent.     'Tis  I  alone  am  guilty. 

JUDGE. 

Drag  him  away  to  torments;  let  them  be 
Subtle  and  long  drawn  out,  to  tear  the  folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him  not 
Till  he  confess. 


THE    CENCI.  525 

MARZIO. 

Torture  me  as  ye  will : 
A  keener  pain  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.     She  is  most  innocent ! 
Bloodhounds,  not  men,  glut  yourselves  well  with 

me ! 
I  will  not  give  you  that  fine  piece  of  nature 
To  rend  and  ruin.  [-Exit  Makzio,  guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What  say  ye  now,  my  lords  ? 

JUDGE. 

Let  tortures  strain  the  truth  till  it  be  white 
As  snow  thrice-sifted  by  the  frozen  wind. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet  stained  with  blood. 

judge  (to  Beatrice). 

Know  you  this  paper,  lady  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Entrap  me  not  with  questions.     Who  stands  here 
As  my  accuser  !     Ha !  wilt  thou  be  he, 
Who  art  my  judge  V     Accuser,  witness,  judge, 
What,  all  in  one  ?     Here  is  Orsino's  name  ; 
Where  is  Orsino  ?     Let  his  eye  meet  mine. 
What  means  this  scrawl  ?  Alas  !  ye  know  not  what, 
And  therefore  on  the  chance  that  it  may  be 
Some  evil,  will  ye  kill  us  ? 

Enter  an   Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Marzio's  dead. 


What  did  he  sav 


52G  THE   CKNCI. 

OFFICES. 

Nothing.     As  soon  as  we 

Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled  on  us, 
As  one  who  baffles  a  deep  adversary  ; 
And  holding  his  breath,  died. 

JUDGE. 

There  remains  nothing 
But  to  apply  the  question  to  those  prisoners, 
Who  yet  remain  stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I  overrule 
Further  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  noble  persons 
Will  use  my  interest  with  the  Holy  Father. 

JUDGE. 

Let  the  Pope's  pleasure  then  be  clone.     Meanwhile 
Conduct  these  culprits  each  to  separate  cells  ; 
And  be  the  engines  ready  :  for  this  night, 
If  the  Pope's  resolution  be  as  grave, 
Pious,  and  just  as  once,  I'll  wring  the  truth 
Out  of  those  nerves  and  sinews,  groan  by  groan. 

[  Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Cell  of  a  Prison. 

Beatrice  is  discovered  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Enter  Bernardo. 

BERNARDO. 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  face. 

Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly  spent, 

Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  prolonged. 

After  such  torments  as  she  bore  last  night. 

How  light  and  soft  her  breathing  comes.     Ah,  me ! 


THE    CENCI.  527 

Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 
But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 
From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus — wake  ;  awake ; 
What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep  ? 

Beatrice  (awaking). 

I  was  just  dreaming 
That  we  were  all  in  Paradise.     Thou  knowest 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 

BERNARDO. 

Dear,  dear  sister, 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  !  O,  God  ! 
Hoav  shall  I  tell  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  wouldst  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or,  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say, 
My  heart  will  break. 

BEATRICE. 

See  now,  thou  mak'st  me  weep : 
How  very  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear  child, 
If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to  say. 

BERNARDO. 

They  have  confessed ;  they  could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Ha  !    What  was  there  to  confess  ? 
They  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked  lie 
To  natter  their  tormentors.     Have  they  said 
That  they  were  guilty  ?     0  white  innocence, 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt  to  hide 


528  Tin:  cknx'i. 

Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 

Enter  Judge,  with  Lucketia  and  GlACOMO,  f/uarded. 

Ignoble  hearts ! 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are  at  least 
As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  which  they  pass, 
Are  centuries  of  high  splendour  laid  in  dust  ? 
And  that  eternal  honour  which  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame, 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  by-word  ?     What ! 
Will  you  give  up  these  bodies  to  be  dragged 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  sweep 
The  footsteps  of  the  vain  and  senseless  crowd, 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 
Their  worship  and  their  spectacle,  will  leave 
The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 
As  their  own  hearts  ?     Shall  the  light  multitude 
Fling,  at  their  choice,  curses  or  faded  pity, 
Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse, 
Upon  us  as  we  pass,  to  pass  away, 
And  leave — what  memory  of  our  having  been  ? 
Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  ?     O  thou, 
Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 
Kill  not  thy  child  !     Let  not  her  wrongs  kill  thee  ! 
Brother,  lie  down  with  me  upon  the  rack, 
And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse  ; 
It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave. 
'Tis  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from  fear 
Makes  the  rack  cruel. 

GIACOMO. 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains  : 
For  pity's  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  speak  the  truth !  Let  us  all  quickly  die  ; 
And  after  death,  God  is  our  judge,  not  they ; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 


THE    CEXCI.  .029 

BERNARDO. 

If  indeed 
It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine  ; 
And  then  the  Pope  will  surely  pardon  you, 
And  all  be  well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures !  Turn 
The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning-wheel  ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 
He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed — not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart, 
And  of  the  soul ;  ay,  of  the  inmost  soul, 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall 
To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are  true, 
My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves. 
And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched  end : 
And  the  small  justice  shown  by  Heaven  and  Earth 
To  me  or  mine ;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou  art. 
And  what  slaves  these  ;  and  what  a  world  we  make, 
The  oppressor  and  the  oppressed — such  pangs  com- 
pel 
My  answer.     What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with  me  ? 

JUDGE. 

Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father's  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Or  wilt  thou  rather  tax  high-judging  God 
That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 
Which  I  have  suffered,  and  which  he  beheld ; 
Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 
All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence, 
But  that  which  thou  hast  called  my  father's  death  ? 
vol.  i.  34 


530  THE    CENCI. 

Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime, 
Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done ; 
Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 
If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be, 
And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will ; 
No  other  pains  shall  force  another  word. 

JUDGE. 

She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confessed. 

Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 

Let  none  have  converse  with  them.     You,  young 

lord, 
Linger  not  here  ! 

BEATRICE. 

O,  tear  him  not  away  ! 

JUDGE. 

Guards !  do  your  duty. 

beknardo  (embracing  Beatrice). 

Oh  !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul  ? 

OFFICER. 

That  is  the  headsman's  business. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo. 


Have  I  confessed  ?     Is  it  all  over  now  ? 

No  hope  ?     No  refuge  ?     O  weak,  wicked  tongue, 

Which  hast  destroyed  me,  would  that  thou  hadst 

been 
Cut  out  and  thrown  to  dogs  first !     To  have  killed 
My  father  first,  and  then  betrayed  my  sister ; 
Ay,  thee  !  the  one  thing  innocent  and  pure 
In  this  black,  guilty  world,  to  that  which  I 
So  well  deserve  !     My  wife  !  my  little  ones  ! 
Destitute,  helpless  ;  and  I — Father  !  God  ! 
Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving. 
When  their  full  hearts  break  thus,  thus  ? — 

[  Covers  his  face  ami  weeps. 


THE    CENCI.  531 

LUCRETIA. 

(),  my  child ! 
To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come  ! 
Why  did  I  yield  ?     Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those  torments  ?     Oh  !  that  I  were  all  dissolved 
Into  these  fast  and  unavailing  tears, 
Which  flow  and  feel  not ! 

BEATRICE. 

What  'twas  weak  to  do, 
'Tis  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done ; 
Take  cheer  !     The  God  who  knew  my  wrong,  and 

made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wrath, 
Seems,  and  but  seems,  to  have  abandoned  us. 
Let  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  this. 
Brother,  sit  near  me  ;  give  me  your  firm  hand, 
You  had  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up  !  bear  up  ! 
Oh  !  dearest  lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile  : 
Your  eyes  look  pale,  hollow,  and  overworn, 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief. 
Come,  I  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy  tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad  ;  some  dull  old  thing, 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony, 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin, 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live  :  lie  down  ! 
So  ;  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith  !  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  were. 

SOXG. 

False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier; 

Farewell !     Heigh  ho ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep!  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 


532  THE   CENCI. 

I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain  ; 
When  to  wakeV     Never  again. 
0  World!  farewell! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 

[  The  scene  doses. 


SCENE   IV. 

A  Hull  of  the  Prison. 

Enter  Camillo  and  BERNARDO. 

CAMILLO. 

The  Pope  is  stern  ;  not  to  be  moved  or  bent. 

He  looked  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  engine 

Which  tortures  and  which  kills,  exempt  itself 

From  aught  that  it  inflicts  ;  a  marble  form, 

A  rite,  a  law,  a  custom ;  not  a  man. 

He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the  trick 

Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 

Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 

And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse,  harsh 

voice : 
"  Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  father 
Killed  in  his  sleep  ?  "     Then  to  another  :  "  Thou 
Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place  ;  'tis  well." 
He  turned  to  me  then,-  looking  deprecation, 
And  said  these  three  words,  coldly :  "  They  must 

die." 


BERNARDO. 

And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 


CAMILLO. 

I  urged  him  still ; 
Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  devilish  wrong 


THE   CENCI.  583 

Which  prompted  your  unnatural  parent's  death. 

And  he  replied,  "  Paolo  Santa  Croce 

Murdered  his  mother  yester  evening, 

And  he  is  fled.     Parricide  grows  so  rife, 

That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt,  the  young 

Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 

Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair" 

Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are  my  nephew, 

You  come  to  ask  their  pardon  ;  stay  a  moment ; 

Here  is  their  sentence ;  never  see  me  more 

Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled." 

BERNARDO. 

O,  God,  not  so  !     I  did  believe  indeed 

That  all  you  said  was  but  sad  preparation 

For  happy  news.     O,  there  are  words  and  looks 

To   bend   the   sternest  purpose !      Once   I   knew 

them, 
Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 
What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and  bathe 
His  feet  and  robe  with  hot  and  bitter  tears  '? 
Importune  him  with  prayers,  vexing  his  brain 
With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 
He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cross,  and  trample 
Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 
May  stain  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he  treads, 
And  remorse  waken  mercy  ?     I  will  do  it ! 
O,  wait  till  I  return !  [Rushes  out. 

CAMILLO. 

Alas !  poor  boy  ! 
A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 
That  thou  bring'st  other  news  than  a  just  pardon. 


534  THE   CENCI. 

CAMFLLO. 

May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  Pope's  prayers,  tli;m  he  has  been  to  mine. 

Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 

BEATRICE  (wildly). 

Oh, 
My  God !     Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?  So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place  ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost ! 
How  fearful !  to  be  nothing  !     Or  to  be — 
What  ?     O,  where  am  I  ?     Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts  !     If  there 

should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void  world ; 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless,  deep,  unpeopled  world ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be — my  father's  spirit, 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me ; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself, 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth, 
Masked  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  com*, 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down  ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present  ?  even  though  dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe, 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin, 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?     Who  ever  yet  returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now, 
O,  whither,  whither  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 


THE    CENCI.  535 

The  tender  promises  of  Christ :  ere  night 
Think  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  past ! 
Whatever  comes,  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false,  and  cold  seem  all  things !     I 
Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man, 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know, 
From  light,   and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet 

prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God ; 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?     And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

[During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  retired  conversing 
with  Camillo,  who  now  goes  out;  Giacomo,  advances. 

GIACOMO. 

Know  you  not,  mother — sister,  know  you  not  ? 
Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 

LUCKETIA. 

Child,  perhaps 
It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years  : 
O,  what  a  thought !     It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

BEATRICE. 

Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold  : 
O,  trample  out  that  thought !    Worse  than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 


536  THE    CENCI. 

Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring: 
Plead    with    awakening    earthquake,    o'er   whose 

couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and  free ; 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawns,  like  death.     O, 

plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  pestilence, 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man  ! 
Cruel,  cold,  formal  man  ;  righteous  in  words, 
In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  must  die  : 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives ; 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men, 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep  ;  'twere  just  the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.      Come,  obscure 

Death, 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms  ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom, 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now — 

Bernardo  rushes  in. 

BERNARDO. 

O,  horrible ! 
That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured  forth  in 

prayer, 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs, 
Should  all  be  vain  !     The  ministers  of  death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw  ^ 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one — what  if  'twere  fancy  r 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  'twere  only  rain.     O,  life  !  O,  world  ! 
Cover  me  !  let  me  be  no  more  !     To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 


THE    CENCI.  537 

Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 
Shivered  to  dust !     To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 
Who  made  all  lovely  thou  clidst  look  upon — 
Thee,  light  ot'  life — dead,  dark !  while  I  say,  sister, 
To  hear  I  have  no  sister ;  and  thou,  mother, 
Whose  love  was  a  bond  to  all  our  loves — 
Dead  !  The  sweet  bond  broken  ! 

Enter  Camillo  and  Guards. 

They  come  !  Let  me 
Kiss  those  warn  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Are  blighted — white — cold.     Say  farewell,  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice  !     O  let  me  hear 
You  speak ! 

BEATRICE. 

Farewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now  : 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsh  despair, 
But   tears   and  patience.      One   thing   more,  my 

child : 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us ;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though  wrapt  in   a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and 

shame, 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.     And  though 
111  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent  brow 
For  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 
So  mayest  thou  die  as  I  do ;  fear  and  pain 
Being  subdued.     Farewell !  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

BERXAIJDO. 

I  cannot  say  farewell ! 

CAMILLO. 

O,  Lady  Beatrice  ! 


538  THE   CENCI. 

BEATRICE. 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain, 
My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 
My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  simple  knot :  ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another !  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 
We  are  quite  ready.     Well,  'tis  very  well. 


NOTE    ON   THE   CENCI. 

BY   MRS.    SHELLEY. 

The  sort  of  mistake  that  Shelley  made,  as  to  the  extent 
of  his  own  genius  and  powers,  which  led  him  deviously 
at  first,  but  lastly  into  the  direct  track  that  enabled  him 
fully  to  develop  them,  is  a  curious  instance  of  his  modesty 
of  feeling,  and  of  the  methods  which  the  human  mind 
uses  at  once  to  deceive  itself,  and  yet,  in  its  very  delusion, 
to  make  its  way  out  of  error  into  the  path  which  nature 
has  marked  out  as  its  right  one.  He  often  incited  me  to 
attempt  the  writing  a  tragedy — he  conceived  that  I  pos- 
sessed some  dramatic  talent,  and  he  was  alwavs  most 
earnest  and  energetic  in  his  exhortations,  that  1  should 
cultivate  any  talent  I  possessed,  to  the  utmost.  I  enter- 
tained a  truer  estimate  of  my  powers ;  and,  above  all, 
though  at  that  time  not  exactly  aware  of  the  fact,  I  was 
far  too  young  to  have  any  cliance  of  succeeding,  even 
moderately,  in  a  species  of  composition,  that_  requires  a 
greater  scope  of  experience  in,  and  sympathy  with,  human 
passion  than  could  then  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  or  than  any 
perhaps,  except  Shelley,  ever  possessed,  even  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  at  which  he  wrote  The  Cenci. 

On  the  other  hand,  Shellev  most  erroneously  conceived 
himself  to  be  destitute  of  this  talent.  He  believed  that 
one  of  the  first  requisites  was  the  capacity  of  forming  and 
following  up  a  story  or  plot.  He  fancied  himself  to  be 
defective  in  this  portion  of  imagination — it  was  that  which 
gave  him  least  pleasure  in  the  writings  of  others — though 
he  laid  great  store  by  it,  as  the  proper  framework  to  sup- 
port the  sublimest  efforts  of  poetry.  He  asserted  that  he 
was  too  metaphysical  and  abstract— too  fond  of  the  theo- 
retical and  the"  ideal,  to  succeed  as  a  tragedian.  It 
perhaps  is  not  strange  that  I  shared  this  opinion  with 
himself,  for  he  had  hitherto  shown  no  inclination  for,  nor 
given  any  specimen  of  his  powers  in  framing  and  sup- 
porting the  interest  of  a  story,  either  in  prose  or  verse. 
Once  or  twice,  when  he  attempted  such,  he  had  speedily 
thrown  it  aside,  as  being  even  disagreeable  to  him  as  an 
occupation. 


540  NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 

The  subject  he  had  suggested  for  a  tragedy  was 
Charles  L,  and  he  had  written  to  me,  "  Remember,  re- 
member Charles  I.  I  have  been  already  imagining  how 
you  would  conduct  some  scenes.  The  Becond  volume  of 
St.  Leon  begins  with  this  proud  aud  true  sentiment, 
'  There  is  nothing  which  the  human  mind  can  conceive 
which  it  may  not  execute.'  Shakspeare  was  only  a 
human  being."  These  words  were  written  in  1818,  while 
we  were  in  Lombardy,  when  he  little  thought  how  soon  a 
work  of  his  own  would  prove  a  proud  comment  on  the 
passage  he  quoted.  When  in  Rome,  in  1819,  a  friend  put 
into  our  hands  the  old  manuscript  account  of  the  story  of 
The  Cenci.  We  visited  the  Colonna  and  Doria  palaces, 
where  the  portraits  of  Beatrice  were  to  be  found;  and 
her  beauty  cast  the  reflection  of  its  own  grace  over  her 
appalling  story.  Shelley's  imagination  became  strongly 
excited,  and  he  urged  the  subject  to  me  as  one  fitted  for 
a  tragedy.  More  than  ever  1  felt  my  incompetence ;  but 
I  entreated  him  to  write  it  instead ;  and  he  began  and 
proceeded  swiftly,  urged  on  by  intense  sympathy  with 
the  sufferings  of  the  human  beings  whose  passions,  so 
long  cold  in  the  tomb,  he  revived,  and  gifted  with  poetic 
language.  This  tragedy  is  the  only  one  of  his  works  that 
he  communicated  to  me  during  its  progress.  We  talked 
over  the  arrangement  of  the  scenes  together.  I  speedily 
saw  the  great  mistake  we  had  made,  and  triumphed  in 
the  discovery  of  the  new  talent  brought  to  light  from  that 
mine  of  wealth,  never,  alas!  through  his  untimely  death, 
worked  to  its  depths — his  richly-gifted  mind. 

We  suffered  a  severe  affliction  in  Rome  by  the  loss  of 
our  eldest  child,  who  was  of  such  beauty  and  promise  as 
to  cause  him  deservedly  to  be  the  idol  of  our  hearts.  We 
left  the  capital  of  the  world,  anxious  for  a  time  to  escape 
a  spot  associated  too  intimately  with  his  presence  and 
loss.*  Some  friends  of  ours  were  residing  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Leghorn,  and  we  took -a  small  house,  Villa 


*  Such  feelings  haunted  him  when,  in  The  Cenci,  he  makes 
Beatrice  speak  to  Cardinal  Camillo  of 

that  fair  blue-eyed  child, 
Who  was  the  loadstar  of  j^our  life. 
And  say — 

All  see,  since  his  most  piteous  death. 

That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time, 

And  all  the  things  hoped  for  or  done  therein. 

Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceeding  grief. 


NOTE    OX    THE    CENCI.  ",41 

Valsovano,  about  half-way  between  the  town  and  Monte 
Nero,  where  we  remained  during  the  summer.  Our  villa 
was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  podere;  the'poa«ants  sane; 
as  they  worked  beneath  our  windows,  during  the  beats 
of  a  very  hot  season,  and  in  the  evening  the  water-wheel 
creaked  as  the  process  of  irrigation  went  on,  and  the  fire- 
flies flashed  from  among  the  myrtle  hedges : — nature  was 
bright,  sunshiny,  and  cheerful,  or  diversified  by  storms 
of  a  majestic  terror,  such  as  we  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed. 

At  the  top  of  the  house,  there  was  a  sort  of  terrace. 
There  is  often  such  in  Italy,  generally  roofed.  This  one 
was  very  small,  yet  not  only  roofed  but  glazed:  this 
Shelley  made  his  study;  it  looked  out  on  a  wide  prospect 
of  fertile  country,  and  commanded  a  view  of  the  near  sea. 
The  storms  that  sometimes  varied  our  day  showed  them- 
selves most  picturesquely  as  they  were  driven  across  the 
ocean ;  sometimes  the  dark  lurid  clouds  dipped  towards 
the  waves,  and  became  waterspouts,  that  churned  up 
the  waters  beneath,  as  they  were  chased  onward,  and 
scattered  by  the  tempest.  At  other  times  the  dazzling 
sunlight  and  heat  made  it  almost  intolerable  to  every 
other;  but  Shelley  basked  in  both,  and  his  health  and 
spirits  revived  under  their  influence.  In  this  airy  cell  he 
wrote  the  principal  part  of  The  Cenci.  He  was  making 
a  study  of  Calderon  at  the  time,  reading  his  best  tragedies 
with  an  accomplished  lady  living  near  us,  to  whom  his 
letter  from  Leghorn  was  addressed  during  the  following 
year.  He  admired  Calderon,  both  for  his  poetry  and  his 
dramatic  genius ;  but  it  shows  his  judgment  and  original- 
ity, that,  though  greatly  struck  by  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  Spanish  poet,  none  of  his  peculiarities  crept  into 
the  composition  of  The  Cenci;  and  there  is  no  trace  of 
hi>  new  studies,  except  in  that  passage  to  which  he  him- 
self alludes,  as  suggested  by  one  in  El  Purgatorio  de  San 
Patricio. 

Shelley  wished  The  Cenci  to  be  acted.  He  was  not  a 
playgoer,  being  of  such  fastidious  taste  that  he  was  easily 
disgusted  by  "the  bad  filling  up  of  the  inferior  parts. 
While  preparing  for  our  departure  from  England,  how- 
ever, he  saw  Miss  O'Xeil  several  times ;  she  was  then  in 
the  zenith  of  her  glory,  and  Shelley  was  deeply  moved  by 
her  impersonation  of  several  parts,  and  by  the  graceful 
sweetness,  the  intense  pathos,  and  sublime  vehemence  of 
passion  she  displayed.  She  was  often  in  his  thoughts  as 
he  wrote,  and  when  he  had  finished,  he  became  anxious 
that  his  tragedy  should  be  acted,  and  receive  the  advau- 


542  NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 

tage  of  having  this  accomplished  actress  to  fill  the  part 
of  the  heroine.  With  this  view  he  wrote  the  following 
letter  to  a  friend  in  London : — 

"  The  object  of  the  present  letter  is  to  ask  a  favour  of 
you.  I  have  written  a  tragedy  on  a  story  well  known  in 
Italy,  and,  in  my  conception,  eminently  dramatic.  I  have 
taken  some  pains  to  make  my  play  fit  for  representation, 
and  those  who  have  already  seen  it  judge  favourably.  It 
is  written  without  any  of  the  peculiar  feelings  and' opin- 
ions which  characterize  my  other  compositions;  I  have 
attended  simply  to  the  impartial  development  of  such 
characters  as  it  is  probable  the  persons  represented  really 


were,  together  with  the  greatest  degree  of  popular  effect 
to  be  produced  by  such  a  development.  I  send  you  a 
translation   of   the   Italian   MS.   on   which   my  play  is 


founded;  the  chief  circumstance  of  which  I  have  touched 
very  delicately;  for  my  principal  doubt  as  to  whether  it 
would  succeed,  as  an  acting  play,  hangs  entirely  on  the 
question,  as  to  whether  any  such  a  thing  as  incest  in  this 
shape,  however  treated,  would  be  admitted  on  the  stage. 
I  think,  however,  it  will  form  no  objection,  considering, 
first,  that  the  facts  are  matter  o'f  history,  and,  secondly, 
the  peculiar  delicacy  with  which  I  have  treated  it.* 

"  I  am  exceedingly  interested  in  the  question  of  whether 
this  attempt  of  mine  will  succeed  or  not.  I  am  strongly 
inclined  to  the  affirmative  at  present;  founding  my  hopes 
on  this,  that  as  a  composition  it  is  certainly  not  Inferior 
to  any  of  the  modern  plays  that  have  been  acted,  with 
the  exception  of  '  Remorse ; '  that  the  interest  of  the  plot 
is  incredibly  greater  and  more  real,  and  that  there  is 
nothing  beyond  what  the  multitude  are  contented  to 
believe  that  they  can  understand,  either  in  imagery,  opin- 
ion, or  sentiment.  I  wish  to  preserve  a  complete  incog- 
nito, and  can  trust  to  you  that,  whatever  else  you  do,  you 
will  at  least  favour  ine  on  this  point.  Indeed  this  is 
essential,  deeply  essential  to  its  success.  After  it  had 
been  acted,  and  successfully,  (could  I  hope  for  such  a 
thing,)  I  would  own  it  if  I  pleased,  and  use  the  celebrity 
it  might  acquh-e,  to  my  own  purposes. 

*  In  speaking  of  his  mode  of  treating  this  main  incident, 
Shelley  said  that  it  might  be  remarked,  that,  in  the  course  of  the 
play,  he  had  neyer  mentioned  expressly  Cenci's  worst  crime. 
Every  one  knew  what  it  must  be,  but  it  was  never  imaged  in 
words — the  nearest  allusion  to  it  being  that  portion  of  Ceuci's 
curse,  beginning, 

"  That  if  she  have  a  child,"  &c. 


NOTE    OX    THE    CENCI.  543 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do,  is  to  procure  for  me  its  pre- 
sentation at  Covent  Gai-den.  The  principal  character, 
Beatrice,  is  precisely  fitted  for  Miss  O'Neil,  and  it  might 
even  seem  to  have  been  written  for  her,  (God  forbid  that 
I  should  see  her  play  it — it  would  tear  my  nerves  to 
pieces,)  and  in  all  respects  it  is  fitted  only  for  Covent 
Garden.  The  chief  male  character  I  confess  I  should  be 
very  unwilling  that  any  one  but  Kean  should  play — that 
is  impossible,  and  I  must  be  contented  with  an  inferior 
actor." 

The  play  was  accordingly  sent  to  Mr.  Harris.  He  pro- 
nounced the  subject  to  be  so  objectionable,  that  he  could 
not  even  submit  the  part  to  Miss  O'Neil  for  perusal,  but 
expressed  his  desire  that  the  author  would  write  a  tragedy 
on  some  other  subject,  which  he  would  gladly  accept. 
Shelley  printed  a  small  edition  at  Leghorn,  to  Insure  its 
correctness ;  as  he  was  much  annoyed  by  the  many  mis- 
takes that  crept  into  his  text,  when  distance  prevented 
him  from  correcting  the  press. 

Universal  approbation  soon  stamped  The  Cenci  as  the 
best  tragedy  of  modern  times.  Writing  concerning  it, 
Shelley  said :  "  I  have  been  cautious  to  avoid  the  intro- 
ducing faults  of  youthful  composition;  diffuseness,  a  pro- 
fusion of  inapplicable  imagery,  vagueness,  generality, 
and,  as  Hamlet  says,  u-ords,  ivords."  There  is  nothing 
that  is  not  purely  dramatic  throughout ;  and  the  charac- 
ter of  Beatrice,  'proceeding  from  vehement  struggle  to 
horror,  to  deadly  resolution,  and  lastly,  to  the  elevated 
dignity  of  calm 'suffering,  joined  to  passionate  tenderness 
and  pathos,  is  touched  with  hues  so  vivid  and  so  beauti- 
ful, that  the  poet  seems  to  have  read  intimately  the 
secrets  of  the  noble  heart  imaged  in  the  lovely  counte- 
nance of  the  unfortunate  girl.  The  Fifth  Act  is  a  master- 
piece. It  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever  wrote,  and  may  claim 
proud  comparison  not  only  with  any  contempoi-ary,  but 
preceding  poet.  The  varying  feelings  of  Beatrice  are  ex- 
pressed with  passionate,  heart-reaching  eloquence.  Every 
character  has  a  voice  that  echoes  truth  in  its  tones.  It  is 
curious,  to  one  acquainted  with  the  written  story,  to 
mark  the  success  with  which  the  poet  has  inwoven  the 
real  incidents  of  the  tragedy  into  his  scenes,  and  yet, 
through  the  power  of  poetry,  has  obliterated  all  that 
would  otherwise  have  shown  too  harsh  or  too  hideous  in 
the  picture.  His  success  was  a  double  triumph;  and 
often  after  he  was  earnestly  entreated  to  write  again  in  a 
style  that  commanded  popular  favour,  while  it  was  not 
less  instinct  with  truth  and  genius.     But  the  bent  of  his 


f>44  XOTK    0H     II IK    (   I.\(   I. 

mind  went  the  other  way;  and  even  when  employed  on 
subjects  whose  interest  depended  on  character  and  inci- 
dent, lie  would  start  off  in  another  direction,  and  I'-avf 
the  delineations  of  human  passion,  which  he  could  depfcl 
in  so  able  a  manner,  for  fantastic  creations  of  his  fancy, 
or  the  expression  of  those  opinions  and  sentiments  with 
regard  to  human  nature  and  its  destiny;  a  desire  to  diffuse 
winch,  was  the  master  passion  of  his  soul. 


HELLAS ; 

A    LYRICAL    DRAMA. 


MANTIS    ELM'  E20AS2N  'ATONON. 

CEdip.  Colon. 


35 


TO 
HIS   EXCELLENCY 

PRINCE  ALEXANDER  MAVROCORDATO, 

LATE     SECRETARY    FOR     FOREIGN    AFFAIRS    TO     THE     HOSPODAR    OF 
WALLA  CHIA, 

THE    DRAMA    OF    HELLAS 

IS   INSCRIBED, 

A3   AN   IMPERFECT   TOKEN    OF   THE   ADMIRATION, 
SYMPATHY,    AND    FRIENDSHIP 


THE   AUTHOR. 


PlSA,  November  1,  1821. 


PREFACE. 


The  poem  of  "  Hellas,"  written  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
events  of  the  moment,  is  a  mere  improvise,  and  derives 
its  interest  (should  it  be  found  to  possess  any)  solely  from 
the  intense  sympathy  which  the  Author  feels  with  the 
cause  he  would  celebrate. 

The  subject,  in  its  present  state,  is  insusceptible  of 
being  treated  otherwise  than  lyrically,  and  if  I  have  called 
this  poem  a  drama,  from  the  circumstance  of  its  being 
composed  in  dialogue,  the  license  is  not  greater  than  that 
which  has  been  assumed  by  other  poets,  who  have  called 
their  productions  epics,  only  because  they  have  been  di- 
vided into  twelve  or  twenty-four  books. 

The  Persse  of  .Eschylus  afforded  me  the  first  model  of 
my  conception,  although  the  decision  of  the  glorious  con- 
test now  waging  in  Greece  being  yet  suspended,  forbids  a 
catastrophe  parallel  to  the  return  of  Xerxes  and  the  deso- 
lation of  the  Persians.  I  have,  therefore,  contented  my- 
self with  exhibiting  a  series  of  lyric  pictui-es,  and  with 
having  wrought  upon  the  curtain  of  futurity,  which  falls 
upon  the  unfinished  scene,  such  figures  of  indistinct  and 
visionary  delineation  as  suggest  the  final  triumph  of  the 
Greek  cause  as  a  portion  of  the  cause  of  civilization  and 
social  improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called)  is,  however,  so 
inartificial,  that  I  doubt  whether,  if  recited  on  the  Thes- 
pian wagon  to  an  Athenian  village  at  the  Dionysiaca,  it 
would  have  obtained  the  prize  of  the  goat.  I  shall  bear 
with  equanimity  any  punishment  greater  than  the  loss  of 
such  a  reward"  which  the  Aristarchi  of  the  hour  may 
think  fit  to  inflict. 

The  only  goat-song  which  I  have  yet  attempted  has,  I 
confess,  in"spite  of  the  unfavourable  nature  of  the  subject, 
received  a  greater  and  a  more  valuable  portion  of  ap- 
plause than  I  expected,  or  than  it  deserved. 

Common  fame  is  the  only  authority  which  I  can  allege 
for  the  details  which  form  the  basis  of  the  poem,  and  I 
must  trespass  upon  the  forgiveness  of  my  readers  for  the 
display  of  newspaper  erudition  to  which  I  have  been  re- 
duced.    Undoubtedly,  until  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  it 


548  HELLAS. 

will  be  impossible  to  obtain  an  account  of  it  sufficiently 
authentic  for  historical  materials;  but  poets  have  then- 
privilege,  and  it  is  unquestionable  that  actions  of  the 
most  exalted  courage  have  been  performed  by  the  Greeks 
— that  they  have  gained  mure  than  one  naval  victory,  and 
that  their  defeat  in  Wallacbia  was  signalized  by  circum- 
stances of  heroism  more  glorious  even  than  victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized  world,  to  the 
astonishing  circumstance  of  the  descendants  of  that 
nation  to  which  they  owe  their  civilization — rising  as  it 
were  from  the  ashes  of  their  ruin,  is  something  perfectly 
inexplicable  to  a  mere  spectator  of  the  shows  of  tin.- 
mortal  scene.  We  are  all  Greeks.  Our  laws,  our  litera- 
ture, our  religion,  our  arts,  have  their  root  in  Greece,  But 
for  Greece — Rome  the  instructor,  the  conqueror,  or  the 
metropolis  of  our  ancestors,  would  have  spread  no  illumi- 
nation with  her  arms,  and  we  might  still  have  been  sav- 
ages and  idolaters ;  or,  what  is  worse,  might  have  arrived 
at  such  a  stagnant  and  miserable  state  of  social  institu- 
tions as  China  and  Japan  possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind  attained  to  a 
perfection  in  Greece  which  has  impressed  its  image  on 
those  faultless  productions,  whose  very  fragments  are  the 
despair  of  modern  art,  and  has  propagated  impulses  which 
cannot  cease,  through  a  thousand  channels  of  manifest  or 
imperceptible  operation,  to  ennoble  and  delight  mankind 
until  the  extinction  of  the  race. 

The  modern  Greek  is  the  descendant  of  those  glorious 
beings  whom  the  imagination  almost  refuses  to  figure  to 
itself  as  belonging  to  our  kind ;  and  he  inherits  much  of 
their  sensibility,  their  rapidity  of  conception,  then*  enthu- 
siasm, and  their  courage.  If  in  many  instances  he  is  de- 
graded by  moral  and  political  slavery  to  the  practice  of 
the  basest  vices  it  engenders,  and  that  below  the  level  of 
ordinary  degradation ;  let  us  reflect  that  the  corruption 
of  the  best  produces  the  worst,  and  that  habits  which 
subsist  only  in  relation  to  a  peculiar  state  of  social  insti- 
tution may  be  expected  to  cease,  as  soon  as  that  relation 
is  dissolved.  In  fact,  the  Greeks,  since  the  admirable 
novel  of  "Anastatius  "  could  have  been  a  faithful  picture 
of  their  manners,  have  undergone  most  important  changes  • 
the  flower  of  their  youth,  returning  to  their  country  from 
the  universities  of  Italy,  Germany,  and  France,  have  com- 
municated to  their  fellow-citizen's  the  latest  results  of  that 
social  perfection  of  which  their  ancestors  were  the  orig- 
inal source.  The  university  of  Chios  contained  before 
the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution,  eight  hundred  students, 


HELLAS.  549 

and  among  them  several  Germans  and  Americans.  The 
munificence  and  energy  of  many  of  the  Greek  princes 
and  merchants,  directed  to  the  renovation  of  their  coun- 
try, with  a  spirit  and  a  wisdom  which  has  few  examples, 
Lb  above  all  praise. 

The  English  permit  their  own  oppressors  to  act  accord- 
ing to  their  natural  sympathy  with  the  Turkish  tyrant, 
and  to  brand  upon  their  name  the  indelible  blot  of  an  alli- 
ance with  the  enemies  of  domestic  happiness,  of  Christi- 
anity, and  civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate  Greece;  and  is 
contented  to  see  the  Turks,  its  natural  enemies,  and  the 
Greeks,  its  intended  slaves,  enfeeble  each  other,  until  one 
or  both  fall  into  its  net.  The  wise  and  generous  policy 
of  England  would  have  consisted  in  establishing  the  inde- 
pendence of  Greece,  and  in  maintaining  it  both  against 
Russia  and  the  Turks ; — but  when  was  the  oppressor  gen- 
erous or  just  ? 

The  Spanish  Peninsula  is  already  free.  France  is 
tranquil  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  partial  exemption  from  the 
abuses  which  its  unnatural  and  feeble  government  are 
vainly  attempting  to  revive.  *The  seed  of  blood  and  mis- 
ery has  been  sown  in  Italy,  and  a  more  vigorous  race  is 
arising  to  go  forth  to  the  harvest.  The  world  waits  only 
the  news  of  a  revolution  of  Germany,  to  see  the  tyrants 
who  have  pinnacled  themselves  on  its  supineness,  precipi- 
tated into  the  ruin  from  which  they  shall  never  arise. 
Well  do  these  destroyers  of  mankind  know  their  enemy, 
when  they  impute  the  insurrection  in  Greece  to  the  same 
spirit  before  which  they  tremble  throughout  the  rest  of 
Europe :  and  that  enemy  well  knows  the  power  and  cun- 
ning of  its  opponents,  and  watches  the  moment  of  their 
approaching  weakness  and  inevitable  division,  to  wrest 
the  bloody  sceptres  from  their  grasp. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

Mahmud,  Daood, 

Hassan,  Ahasuerus,  a  Jew. 

Chorus  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 

Messengers,  Slaves,  and  Attendants. 


Scene —  Constantinople. 
Time — Sunset. 


HELLAS. 

Scene,  a  Terrace,  on  the  Seraglio. 

Maiimud  {sleeping),  an  Indian  slave  siding  beside  his  Couch. 

CHORUS   OF    GREEK    CAPTIVE    WOMEN. 

We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow, — 
They  were  stript  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell — not  ours  who  weep ! 

INDIAN. 

Away,  unlovely  dreams  ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seem?. 

Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death, 
Sweet  as  a  summer  night  without  a  breath. 

CHORUS 

Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber ; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake,  where  none  shall  weep. 


552 


INDIAN. 

I  touch  thy  temples  pale  ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep, 
So  thou  might'est  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep. 

CHORUS. 

Breathe  low,  low, 
The  spell  of  the*  mighty  mistress  now  ! 
When  Conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake, 
And  Tyrants  sleep,  let  Freedom  wake. 
Breathe  low,  low, 
The  words,  which,  like  secret  fire,  shall  flow 
Through  the  veins  of  the  frozen  earth — low,  low  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not ; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  burnetii ; 
Love  repulsed, — but  it  returneth. 

semichorus  n. 
Yet  were  life  a  charnel,  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair  ; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie, 
Love  were  lust — 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight, 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear. 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 


In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 


.53 


The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled, 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendour  burst  and  shone : — 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 

The  springing  Fire. — The  winged  glory 
On  Philippi  half-alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man 

It  lived ;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion.  Switzerland. 
Then  night  fell ;  and.  as  from  night, 
Re-assuming  fiery  flight, 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 

Against  the  course  of  heaven  and  doom, 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame, 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 
From  far  Atlantis'  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 

Hid.  but  quenched  it  not ;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 

From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 
As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 
Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  Avarning, 
When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air. 
Sick  with  famine  ; — Freedom,  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns  ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day ; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wing- 


554 


Her  renovated  nurslings  phi  \ . 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies, 
A  Desert,  or  a  Paradise ; 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew ; 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew ; 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

With  an  orphan's  affection 

She  followed  thy  bier  through  time  ! 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

And  at  thy  resurrection 

Reappeareth,  like  thou,  sublime  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

If  Heaven  should  resume  thee, 

To  Heaven  shall  her  spirit  asoend ; 

SEMICHORUS  n. 

If  Hell  should  entomb  thee, 

To  Hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

SEMICHOURS   I. 

If  Annihilation — 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Dust  let  her  glories  be  ; 
And  a  name  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten,  Freedom,  with  thee  ! 


INDIAN. 

His  brow  grows  darker — breathe  not — move  not ! 
He  starts — he  shudders  ; — ye  that  love  not, 
With  your  panting  loud  and  fast 
Have  awakened  him  at  last. 

mahmud  {starting  from  his  sleep). 
Man  the  Seraglio-guard  !  make  fast  the  gate. 
What !  from  a  cannonade  of  three  short  hours  ? 
'Tis  false  !  that  breach  towards  the  Bosphorus 
Cannot  be  practicable  yet — Who  stirs  ? 
Stand  to  the  match ;  that  when  the  foe  prevails, 
One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered  !     Heave  the 

tower 
Into  the  gap — wrench  off  the  roof. 

Enter  Hassan. 

Ha!  what! 
The  truth  of  day  lightens  upon  my  dream, 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 


Your  Sublime  Highness 
Is  strangely  moved. 

MAHMUD. 

The  times  do  cast  strange  shadows 
On   those  who   watch   and  who   must  rule   their 

course, 
Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  in  glory, 
Be  whelmed  in  the  fierce  ebb : — and  these  are  of 

them. 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  hunted  me 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day ; 
It  shakes  me  as  the  tempest  shakes  the  sea, 
Leaving  no  figirre  upon  memory's  glass. 
Would   that — no   matter.      Thou   didst   say   thou 

knewest 


A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle 
Of  strange  and  secret  ami  forgotten  things. 
1  bade  thee  summon  him: — 'tis  said  hi-  bribe 
Dream,  and  arc  wise  interpreters  of  dreams. 

HASSAN. 

The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is  old, — so  old 
He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  decay ; 
The  hoary  mountains  and  the  wrinkled  ocean 
Seem  younger  still  than  he;  his  hair  and  beard 
Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow ; 
His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 
Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 
With  light,  and  to  the  soul  that  quickens  them 
Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 
To  the  winter  wind : — but  from  his  eye  looks  forth 
A  life  of  uneonsumed  thought,  which  pierces 
The  present,  and  the  past,  and  the  to-come. 
Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom  the  great  prophet 
_  Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery, 
Mocked  with  the  curse  of  immortality. 
Some  feign  that  he  is  Enoch ;  others  dream 
He  was  pre-adamite,  and  has  survived 
Cycles  of  generation  and  of  ruin. 
The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence, 
And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous  flesh, 
Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study, 
In  years  outstretched  beyond  the  date  of  man, 
May  have  attained  to  sovereignty  and  science 
Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and  thoughts 
Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 


I  would  talk 
With  this  old  Jew. 

HASSAN. 

Thy  will  is  even  now 
Made  known  to  him,  where  he  dwells  in  a  sea- 
cavern 


'Mid  the  Demonesi,  less  accessible 

Than  thou  or  God !     He  who  would  question  him 

Must  sail  alone  at  sunset,  where  the  stream 

Of  ocean  sleeps  around  those  foamless  isles 

When  the  young  moon  is  westering  as  now, 

And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave  ; 

And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing  isle 

Green  Erebinthus,  quench  the  fiery  shadow 

Of  his  gilt  prow  within  the  sapphire  water. 

Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud, 

Ahasuerus  !  and  the  caverns  round 

"Will  answer,  Ahasuerus  !     If  his  prayer 

Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise. 

Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 

Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine-forest, 

And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 

Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him 

Through  the  soft  twilight  to  the  Bosphorus  : 

Thence,  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circumstance 

Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference, 

The  Jew  appears.     Few  dare,  and  few  who  dare, 

Win  the  desired  communion — but  that  shout 

Bodes —  [^  shoui  u-ithin. 

MAHMl'D. 

Evil,  doubtless ;  like  all  human  sounds. 
Let  me  converse  with  spirits. 


That  shout  again. 

MAHMUD. 

This  Jew  whom  thou  hast  summoned — 

HASSAN. 

Will  be  here — 

MAHMUD. 

When  the  omnipotent  hour,  to  which  are  yoked 
He,  1,  and  all  things,  shall  compel — enough. 
Silence  those  mutineers — that  drunken  crew 


558  HELLAS. 

That  crowd  about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay  !  strike  the  foremost  shorter  by  a  head  ! 
They  weary  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars — they  rise  and  set,  they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 

[Exeunt  severally 

CHORUS. 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river, 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal, 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  they  go ; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  Gods,  new  laws  receive, 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they  last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God  ; 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came ; 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapour  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light ; 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  blood-hounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 
From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradi.-e. 


HELLAS.  559 

Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes  ; 

So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem : 
Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 
Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams, 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

Enter  Mahmud,  Hassan,  Daood,  and  others. 

MAHMUD. 

More  gold  ?  our  ancestors  bought  gold  with  victory, 
And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat  ? 


The  Janizars 
Clamour  for  pay. 

MAHMUD. 

Go  !  bid  them  pay  themselves 
With   Christian  blood!      Are  there  no   Grecian 

virgins 
Whose  shrieks  and  spasms  and  tears  they  may 

enjoy  ? 
No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears  ? 
Xo  hoar}'  priests  after  that  Patriarch 
Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's  heart, 
Which  clove  his  own  at  last  ?     Go  !  bid  them  kill : 
Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 

DAOOD. 

It  has  been  sown, 
And  yet  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 


50U 


MAHMUD. 

Then  take  this  signet, 
Unlock  the  seventh  chamber,  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman. 
An  empire's  spoils  stored  for  a  day  of  ruin. 
0  spirit  of  my  sires  !  is  it  not  come  ? 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged  and 

sleep  ; 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the  red  earth, 
Hunger  for  gold,  which  fills  not. — See  them  fed ; 
Then  lead  them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh  death. 

[Exit  Daood. 
Oh  !  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 
More  glorious  than  the  day  which  it  usurped  ! 
O,  faith  in  God  !  O,  power  on  earth  !  O,  word 
Of  the  great  Prophet,  whose  overshadowing  wings 
Darkened  the  thrones  and  idols  of  the  west, 
Now  bright ! — For  thy  sake  cursed  be  the  hour, 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child, 
When  the  orient  moon  of  Islam  rolled  in  triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  white  Ceraunia  ! 
Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  below ; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within ; 
The  chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all 
Thirsting  to  drink ;  and  who  among  us  dares 
To  dash  it  from  his  lips  ?  and  where  is  Hope  ? 

HASSAN. 

The  lamp  of  our  dominion  still  rides  high ; 
One  God  is  God — Mahomet  is  his  Prophet. 
Four  hundred  thousand  Moslems,  from  the  limits 
Of  utmost  Asia,  irresistibly 
Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the  Scirocco's  cry, 
But  not  like  them  to  weep  their  strength  in  tears ; 
They  have  destroying  lightning,  and  their  step 
Wakes  earthquake,  to  consume  and  overwhelm, 
And  reign  in  ruin.     Phrygian  Olympus, 
Tmolus,  and  Latmos,  and  Mycale,  roughen 
With  horrent  arms,  and  lofty  ships,  even  now, 


HELLAS.  561 

Like  vapours  anchored  to  a  mountain's  edge, 

Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait  at  Scala 

The  convoy  of  the  ever-veering  wind. 

Samos  is  drunk  with  blood ; — the  Greek  has  paid 

Brief  victory  with  swift  loss  and  long  despair. 

The  false  Moldavian  serfs  fled  fast  and  far 

When  the  fierce  shout  of  Allah-ilia- Allah  ! 

Hose  like  the  war-cry  of  the  northern  wind, 

Which  kills  the  sluggish  clouds,  and  leaves  a  flock 

Of  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked  storm. 

So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's  day  ! 

If  night  is  mute,  yet  the  returning  sun 

Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds ; 

Nor  at  thy  bidding  less  exultingly 

Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day. 

The  Anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 

Their  tempest-winged  cities  of  the  sea, 

To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world. 

Li  ke  sulphureous  clouds  half-shattered  by  the  storm, 

They  sweep  the  pale  iEgean,  while  the  Queen 

Of  Ocean,  bound  upon  her  island  throne. 

Far  in  the  AVest,  sits  mourning  that  her  sons. 

Who  frown  on  Freedom,  spare  a  smile  for  thee : 

Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 

Within  a  cloud,  near  which  a  kite  and  crane 

Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight, 

To  stoop  upon  the  victor ;  for  she  fears 

The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates  thine : 

But  recreant  Austria  loves  thee  as  the  Grave 

Loves  Pestilence,  and  her  slow  dogs  of  war, 

Fleshed  with  the  chase,  come  up  from  Italy, 

And  howl  upon  their  limits  :  for  they  see 

The  panther  Freedom  fled  to  her  old  cover, 

Amid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier  brood 

Crouch  around.     What  Anarch  wears  a  crown  or 

mitre, 
Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of  gold, 
Whose  friends  are  not  thy  friends,  whose  foes  thy 
foes? 
vol.  i.  36 


Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full : 

Our  forts  defy  assaults;  ten  thousand  cannon 

Lie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and  hour  by  hour 

Their  earth-convulsing  wheels  affright  the  city  ; 

The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 

The  Christian  merchant,  and  the  yellow  Jew 

Hides  his  hoard  deeper  in  the  faithless  earth. 

Like  clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds, 

Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 

Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartar  chivalry 

Sweep  ; — the  far-flashing  of  their  starry  lances 

Reverberates  the  dying  light  of  day. 

We  have  one  God,  one  King,  one  Hope,  one  Law ; 

But  many-headed  Insurrection  stands 

Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 

MAHMUD. 

Proud  words,  when  deeds  come  short,  are  season- 
able : 
Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  emblazoned 
Upon  that  shattered  flag  of  fiery  cloud 
Which  leads  the  rear  of  the  departing  day, 
Wan  emblem  of  an  empire  fading  now ! 
See  how  it  trembles  in  the  blood-red  air, 
And  like  a  mighty  lamp  whose  oil  is  spent, 
Shrinks  on  the  horizon's  edge,  while,  from  above, 
One  star  with  insolent  and  victorious  light 
Hovers  above  its  fall,  and  with  keen  beams, 
Like  arrows  through  a  fainting  antelope, 
Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 


Even  as  that  moon 
Renews  itself 

MAHMUD. 

Shall  we  be  not  renewed  ! 
Far  other  bark  than  ours  were  needed  now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time : 


HELLAS.  5G3 

The  spirit  that  lifts  the  slave  before  its  lord 
Stalks  through  the  capitals  of  armed  kings, 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  wilderness ; 
Exults  in  chains ;  and  when  the  rebel  falls, 
Cries  like  the  blood  of  Abel  from  the  dust ; 
And  the  inheritors  of  earth,  like  beasts 
When  earthquake  is  unleashed,  with  idiot  fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens — as  I  do  now. 
What  were  Defeat,  when  Victory  must  appall  ? 
Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  pale  ? 
How  said  the  messenger — who  from  the  fort 
Islanded  in  the  Danube,  saw  the  battle 
Of  Bucharest '? — that — 

HASSAN. 

Ibrahim's  cimeter 
Drew  with  its  gleam  swift  victory  from  heaven, 
To  burn  before  him  in  the  night  of  battle — 
A  light  and  a  destruction. 

MAHMUD. 

Ay !  the  day 
Was  ours ;  but  how  ? — 

HASSAN. 

The  light  Wallachians, 
The  Arnaut,  Servian,  and  Albanian  allies, 
Fled  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunder-stone  alit ; 
One  half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of  safe  and  slow  retreat,  with  Moslem  dead  ; 
The  other — 

MA  II  MUD. 

Speak — tremble  not — 

HASSAN. 

Islanded 
By  victor  myriads,  formed  in  hollow  square 


564  HELLAS. 

With  rough  and  steadfast  front,  and  thrice  flung 

back 
The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry ; 
Thrice  their  keen  wedge  of  battle  pierced  our  lines. 
Our  baffled  army  trembled  like  one  man 
Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space  ;  but  soon, 
From  the  surrounding  hills,  the  batteries  blazed, 
Kneading  them  down  with  fire  and  iron  rain. 
Yet  none  approached ;  till,  like  a  field  of  corn 
Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man, 
The  bands,  intrenched  in  mounds  of  Turkish  dead, 
Grew   weak    and   few.      Then   said    the    Pacha, 

"  Slaves, 
Render  yourselves — they  have  abandoned  you — 
What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid  ? 
We  grant  your  lives." — "  Grant  that  which  is  thine 

own," 
Cried  one,  and  fell  upon  his  sword  and  died ! 
Another — "  God,  and  man,  and  hope  abandon  me ; 
But  I  to  them  and  to  myself  remain 
Constant ; "  he  bowed  his  head  and  his  heart  burst. 
A  third  exclaimed,  "  There  is  a  refuge,  tyrant, 
"Where  thou  darest  not  pursue,  and  canst  not  harm, 
Shouldst  thou  pursue ;  there  we  shall  meet  again." 
Then  held  his  breath,  and,  after  a  brief  spasm, 
The  indignant  spirit  cast  its  mortal  garment 
Among  the  slain — :dead  earth  upon  the  earth ! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  different  ways, 
Some  strange,  all  sudden,  none  dishonourable, 
Met  in  triumphant  death ;  and  when  our  army 
Closed  in,  while  yet  wonder,  and  awe,  and  shame 
Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That  feed  upon  the  dead  and  fly  the  living, 
One  rose  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  slain  ; 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  which  some,  dread  spirit 
Of  the  old  saviours  of  the  land  we  rule 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger,  wandering  by ; 
Or  if  there  burned  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable  disdain  of  death,  and  faith 


HELLAS.  5G5 

Creating  what  it  feigned ; — I  cannot  tell : 

But  he  cried,  "  Phantoms  of  the  free,  we  come  ! 

Annies  of  the  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 

To  dust  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings, 

And  shake  the  souls  throned  on  their  stony  hearts, 

And  thaw  their  frost-work  diadems  like  dew ; — 

O  ye  who  float  around  this  clime,  and  weave 

The  garment  of  the  glory  which  it  wears ; 

Whose  fame,  though  earth  betray  the  dust  it  clasped, 

Lies  sepulchred  in  monumental  thought ; — 

Progenitors  of  all  that  yet  is  great, 

Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  O  accept 

In  your  high  ministrations,  us,  your  sons — 

Us  first,  and  the  more  glorious  yet  to  come ! 

And  ye,  weak  conquerors  !  giants  who  look  pale 

When    the    crushed    worm    rebels    beneath    your 

tread — 
The  vultures,  and  the  dogs,  your  pensioners  tame, 
Are  overgorged  ;  but,  like  oppressors,  still 
They  crave  the  relic  of  Destruction's  feast. 
The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds 
Are  sick  with  blood ;  the  dew  is  foul  with  death — 
Heaven's   light   is   quenched   in  slaughter :    Thus 

where'er 
Upon  your  camps,  cities,  or  towers,  or  fleets, 
The  obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants  cast 
Of   these    dead   limbs,   upon    your   streams    and 

mountains, 
Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens,  and  your  house- 
tops, 
Where'er  the  winds  shall  creep,  or  the  clouds  fly, 
Or  the  dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look  down 
With  poisoned  light — Famine,  and  Pestilence, 
And  Panic,  shall  wage  war  upon  our  side  ! 
Nature  from  all  her  boundaries  is  moved 
Against  ye  :  Time  has  found  ye  light  as  foam. 
The  Earth  rebels ;  and  Good  and  Evil  stake 
Their  empire  o'er  the  unborn  world  of  men 
On  this  one  cast — but  ere  the  die  be  thrown, 


566  iikllas. 

The  renovated  genius  of  our  race, 

Proud  umpire  of  the  impious  game,  descends 

A  seraph- winged  Victory,  bestriding 

The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 

Which  sweeps  all  things  to  their  appointed  doom, 
And  you  to  oblivion  !" — More  he  would  have  said, 
But- 


Died — as  thou  shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had  painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime,  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue ! 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 

HASSAN. 

It  may  be  so : 
A  spirit  not  my  own  wrenched  me  within, 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hate ; 
Yet  would  I  die  for — 

MAHMUD. 

Live  !  O  live  !  outlive 
Me  and  this  sinking  empire : — but  the  fleet — 


Alas! 

MAHMUD. 

The  fleet  which,  like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by  the  wind,  flies  the  insurgent  banner. 
Our  winged  castles  from  their  merchant  ships  ! 
Our  myriads  before  their  weak  pirate  bands  ! 
Our  arms   before   their   chains !       Our   years   of 

empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear  ! 
Death  is  awake  !     Repulsed  on  the  waters, 
They  own  no  more  the  thunder-bearing  banner 
Of  Mahmud  ;  but  like  hounds  of  a  base  breed, 
Gorge  from   a   stranger's  hand,   and   rend    their 

master. 


567 


HASSAN. 

Latinos,  and  Ampelos,  and  Phanae,  saw 
The  wreck — 

MAHMUD. 

The  eaves  of  the  Iearian  isles 
Hold  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with  the  tongue  as  of  a  thousand  echoes 
First  of  the  sea-convulsing  fight — and  then — 
Thou  darest  to  speak — senseless  are  the  mountains, 
Interpret  thou  their  voice  ! 

HASSAN. 

My  presence  bore 
A  part  in  that  day's  shame.     The  Grecian  fleet 
Bore  down  at  day-break  from  the  North,  and  hung 
As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line 
As  cranes  upon  the  cloudless  Thracian  wind. 
Our  squadron,  convoying  ten  thousand  men, 
Was  stretching  towards  Nauplia  when  the-  battle 
Was  kindled. — 

First  through  the  hail  of  our  artillery 
The  agile  Hydriote  barks  with  press  of  sail 
Dashed  : — ship  to  ship,  cannon  to  cannon,  man 
To  man,  were  grappled  in  tlie  embrace  of  war, 
Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 
The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulsed 
To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  sea, 
And  shook  heaven's  roof  of  golden  morning  clouds 
Poised  on  an  hundred  azure  mountain-isles. 
In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery, 
One  cry  from  the  destroyed  and  the  destroyer 
Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapt 
The  unforeseen  event,  till  the  north  wind 
Sprung  from  the  sea,  lifting  the  heavy  veil 
Of  battle-smoke — then  victory — victory  ! 
For,  as  we  thought,  three  frigates  from  Algiers 
Bore  down  from  Naxos  to  our  aid,  but  soon 
The  abhorred  cross  glimmered  behind,  before, 


568  SELLAS. 

Among,  around  us;  and  that  fatal  sign 

Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  of  Moslem  hearts. 

As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew. — What  more  ?     We 

fled! 
Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 
Was  beaconed,  and  the  glare  struck  the  sun  pale, 
By  our  consuming  transports  :  the  fierce  light 
Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood-red, 
And  every  countenance  blank.     Some   ships  lay 

feeding 
The  ravening  fire  even  to  the  water's  level : 
Some  were  blown  up ;  some,  settling  heavily, 
Sunk  ;  and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions  died 
Upon  the  wind,  that  bore  us  fast  and  far, 
Even  after  they  were  dead.     Nine  thousand  per- 
ished ! 
We  met  the  vultures  legioned  in  the  air, 
Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind : 
They,  screaming  from  their  cloudy  mountain  peaks, 
Stooped  through  the  sulphureous  battle-smoke,  and 

perched 
Each  on  the  weltering  carcase  that  we  loved, 
Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  damned  soul. 
Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
We  saw  the  dog-fish  hastening  to  their  feast. 
Joy  waked  the  voiceless  people  of  the  sea, 
And  ravening  famine  left  his  ocean-cave 
To  dwell  with  war,  with  us,  and  with  despair. 
We  met  night  three  hours  to  the  west  of  Patmos. 
As  with  night,  tempest — 

MAHMUD. 

Cease  ! 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  ambassador, 


569 


lias  left  the  city.     If  the  rebel  fleet 
Had  anchored  in  the  port,  had  victory- 
Crowned  the  Greek  legions  in  the  Hippodrome, 
Panic  were  tamer. — Obedience  and  Mutiny, 
Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck, 
Stand  gazing  on  each  other. — There  is  peace 
In  Stamboul. — 

MAIIMUD. 

Is  the  grave  not  calmer  still  ? 
Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 


Fear  not  the  Russian  ; 
The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 
Against  the  hunter. — Cunning,  base,  and  cruel, 
He  crouehes,  watching  till  the  spoil  be  won, 
And  must  be  paid  for  his  reserve  in  blood. 
After  the  war  is  fought,  yield  the  sleek  Russian 
That   which   thou   canst   not   keep,   his   deserved 

portion 
Of  blood,  which  shall  not  flow  through  streets  and 

fields, 
Rivers  and  seas,  like  that  which  we  may  win, 
But  stagnate  in  the  veins  of  Christian  slaves  ! 

Enter  Second  Messenger. 

SECOND    MESSENGER. 

Nauplia,  Tripolizza,  Moth  on,  Athens, 

Navarin,  Artas,  Monernbasia, 

Corinth  and  Thebes,  are  carried  by  assault ; 

And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 

Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves, 

Passed  at  the  edge  of  the  sword :  the  lust  of  blood, 

Which  made  our  wTarriors  drunk,  is  quenched  in 

death ; 
But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew 
In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause  look  pale 


In  its  own  light.     The  garrison  of  Patras 

Has  store  but  for  ten  days,  nor  is  there  hope 

But  from  the  Briton ;  at  once  slave  and  tyrant, 

His  wishes  still  are  weaker  than  his  fears  ; 

Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  remain 

From  the  oaths  broke  in  Genoa  and  in  Norway  ; 

And  if  you  buy  him  not,  your  treasury 

Is  empty  even  of  promises — his  own  coin. 

The  freeman  of  a  western  poet  chief 

Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels, 

And  has  beat  back  the  Pacha  of  Negropont ; 

The  aged  Ali  sits  in  Yanina, 

A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire  ; 

His  name,  that  shadow  of  his  withered  might, 

Holds  our  besieging  army  like  a  spell 

In  prey  to  famine,  pest,  and  mutiny  : 

He,  bastioned  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 

Joyless  upon  the  sapphire  lake  that  mirrors 

The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  reigned 

Childless  and  sceptreless.     The  Greek  has  reap! 

The  costly  harvest  his  own  blood  matured, 

Not  the  sower,  Ali — who  has  bought  a  truce 

From  Ypsilanti,  with  ten  camel-loads 

Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  Third  Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

What  more  ? 

THIRD  MESSENGER. 

The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are  in  revolt ; — Damascus,  Hems,  Aleppo, 
Tremble  ; — the  Arab  menaces  Medina ; 
The  Ethiop  has  intrenched  himself  in  Sennaar. 
And  keeps  the  Egyptian  rebel  well  employed, 
Who  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.     Persia  demands 


1LELL  AS.  5  71 

The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 

Refuse  their  living  tribute.     Crete  and  Cyprus, 

Like  mountain-twins  that  from  each  other's  veins 

Catch  the  volcano-fire  and  earthquake  spasm, 

Shake  in  the  general  fever.     Through  the  city, 

Like  birds  before  a  storm,  the  Santons  shriek, 

And  prophesyings  horrible  and  new 

Are  heard  among  the  crowd ;  that  sea  of  men 

Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless  and  still. 

A  Dervise,  learned  in  the  Koran,  preaches 

That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 

Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 

The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from  the  west ; 

Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds  and  glory, 

But  in  the  Omnipresence  of  that  spirit 

In  which  all  live  and  are.     Ominous  signs 

Are  blazoned  broadly  on  the  noon-day  sky  ; 

One  saw  a  red  cross  stamped  upon  the  sun ; 

It  has  rained  blood ;   and  monstrous  births  declare 

The  secret  wrath  of  Nature  and  her  Lord. 

The  army  encamped  upon  the  Cydaris 

Was  roused  last  night  by  the  alarm  of  battle, 

And  saw  two  hosts  conflicting  in  the  air, — 

The  shadows  doubtless  of  the  unborn  time, 

Cast  on  the  mirror  of  the  night.     While  yet 

The  fight  hung  balanced,  there  arose  a  storm 

Which  swept  the  phantoms  from  among  the  stars. 

At  the  third,  watch  the  spirit  of  the  plague 

Was  heard  abroad  flapping  among  the  tents : 

Those  who  relieved  watch  found  the  sentinels  dead. 

The  last  news  from  the  camp  is,  that  a  thousand 

Have  sickened,  and — 

Enter  a  Fourth  Me$$enger. 

MAHMUD. 

And  thou,  pale  ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumour,  speak  ! 


FOURTH    MESSENGER. 

One  comes 
Fainting  with  toil,  covered  with  foam  and  blood ; 
He  stood,  he  says,  upon  Clelonit's 
Promontory,  which  o'erlooks  the  isles  that  groan 
Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their  waters 
Then  trembling  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon ; 
When,  as  the  wandering  clouds  unveiled  or  hid 
Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse  fleets 
Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's  glimmei, 
Mingling  fierce  thunders  and  sulphureous  gleams, 
And  smoke  which  strangled  every  infant  wind 
That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  through  the  deep  air. 
At  length  the  battle  slept,  but  the  Scirocco 
Awoke,  and  drove  his  flock  of  thunder-clouds 
Over  the  sea-horizon,  blotting  out 
All  objects — save  that  in  the  faint  moon-glimpse 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw  the  Turkish  admiral 
And  two,  the  loftiest,  of  our  ships  of  war, 
With  the  bright  image  of  that  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Who  hid,  perhaps,  her  face  for  grief,  reversed ; 
And  the  abhorred  cross — 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


The  Jew,  who- 


ATTENDANT. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 


MAHMUD. 

Could  not  come  more  seasonably : 
Bid  him  attend.     I'll  hear  no  more  !  too  long 
We  gaze  on  danger  through  the  mist  of  fear, 
And  multiply  upon  our  shattered  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will  ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge, 
Through  rough  and  smooth ;    nor  can  we   sutler 

aught 
Which  he  inflicts  not  in  whose  hand  we  are. 

[Exeunt. 


SEMICHORUS   I. 

Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud  ! 

I  would  scorn 

The  smile  of  morn, 
And  the  wave  where  the  moon-rise  is  born  ! 

I  would  leave 

The  spirits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to  weave 
From  other  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  blue  noon  divine 

Who  would,  not  I. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Whither  to  fly  ? 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Where  the  rocks  that  gird  th'  JEgean 
Echo  to  the  battle  pasan 

Of  the  free— 

I  would  flee 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory  ! 

My  golden  rain 

For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should  mingle  in  tears  with  the  bloody  main ; 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing-bell 

Of  tyranny  ! 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Ah  king !  wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain  ? 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightning  and  hurricane  ? 

The  storms  are  free, 

But  we — 


O  Slavery  !  thou  frost  of  the  world's  prime, 
Killing  its  flowers  and  leaving  its  thorns  bare  I 


Thy  touch  has  stamped  these'  limbs  with  crime, 
These  brows  thy  branding  garland  bear; 
But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul, 
Scorn  thy  control ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Let  there  be  light !  said  Liberty  : 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea, 
Athens  arose  ! — Around  her  born, 
Shone  like  mountains  in  the  morn, 
Glorious  states ; — and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion  ? 

semichorus  n. 

Go 
Where  Thermae  and  Asopus  swallowed 

Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam. 
Deluge  upon  deluge  followed, 

Discord,  Macedon,  and  Rome  : 
And,  lastly,  thou  ! 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Temples  and  towers, 
Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 

Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours, 
And  may  be  thine  and  must  decay ; 

But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 

Built  below  the  tide  of  war, 

Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 

Of  thought  and  its  eternity ; 
Her  citizens,  imperial  spirits, 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past, 
On  all  this  world  of  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
Whose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls  ? 
Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 


HELLAS.  575 

Of  Slavery  ?  Argos,  Corinth,  Crete, 
Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 

The  dsamona  and  the  nymphs  repeal 
The  harmony. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

I  hear !    I  hear  ! 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

The  world's  eyeless  charioteer, 

Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What  faith  is  crushed,  what  empire  bleeds 
Beneath  her  earthquake-footed  steeds  ? 
What  eagle-wingecl  victory  sits 
At  her  right  hand  ?  what  shadow  flits 
Before  ?  what  splendour  rolls  behind  '? 

Ruin  and  Renovation  cry, 
Who  but  we  ? 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

I  hear  !  I  hear  ! 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind, 
The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming, 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming, 

I  hear  !  I  hear  ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling. 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
Mercv  !  Mercy  ! — How  thev  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  «  Kill !  kill !  kill ! " 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus — 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

For 
Revenge     and    wrong     bring    forth    their 
kind, 
The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are, 
Their  den  is  in  their  guilt}'  mind, 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair. 


76 


S  KM  I  CHORUS   I. 

In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fane 
Of  Wisdom.  Pity's  altar  stood  ; 
Serve  not  the  unknown  God  in  vain, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again 
Love  for  hate,  and  tears  for  blood. 

Enter  MAHMUD  and  Ahasuerus. 

MAHML'D. 

Thou  art  a  man,  thou  sayest,  even  as  we  — 

AHASUERUS. 

No  more ! 

MAHMUD. 

But  raised  above  thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  sayest  so. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou  art  an  adept  in  the  difficult  lore 

Of  Greek  and  Frank  philosophy  ;  thou  numberest 

The  flowers,  and  thou  measurest  the  stars  ; 

Thou  severest  element  from  element ; 

Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  sees 

The  birth  of  this  old  world  through  all  its  cycles 

Of  desolation  and  of  loveliness  ; 

And  when  man  was  not,  and  how  man  became 

The  monarch  and  the  slave  of  this  low  sphere, 

And  all  its  narrow  circles — it  is  much. 

I  honour  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 

Were  I  not  what  I  am  ;  but  the  unborn  hour, 

Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  conflicting  storms, 

Who  shall  unveil  ?     Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor  any 

Mighty  or  wise.     I  apprehend  not 

What  thou  hast  taught  me,  but  I  now  perceive 


HELLAS.  T>7  7 

That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams ; 
Thou  dost  not  own  that  art.  device,  or  God. 
Can  make  the  future  present — let  it  come ! 
Moreover  thou  disdainest  us  and  ours  ! 
Thou  art  as  God,  whom  thou  contemplatest. 

AHASUERUS. 

Disdain  thee  ? — not  the  worm  beneath  my  feet ! 

The  Fathomless  has  care  for  meaner  things 

Than  thou  canst  dream,  and  has  made  pride  for 

those 
Who  would  be  what  they  may  not,  or  would  seem 
That  which  they  are  not.     Sultan  !  talk  no  more 
Of  thee  and  me,  the  future  and  the  past ; 
But  look  on  that  which  cannot  change — the  One 
The  unborn,  and  the  undying.     Earth  and  ocean, 
Space,  and  the  isles  of  life  or  light  that  gem 
The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air, 
This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos, 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire, 
Whose  out  wall,  bastioned  impregnably 
Against  the  escape  of  boldest  thoughts,  repels  them 
As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds — this  whole 
Of  suns,  and  worlds,  and  men,  and  beasts,  and 

flowers, 
With  all  the  silent  or  tempestuous  workings 
By  which  they  had  been,  are,  or  cease  to  be, 
Is  but  a  vision  ; — all  that  it  inherits 
Are  motes  of  a  sick  eye,  bubbles,  and  dreams ; 
Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  nor  less 
The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 
Of  thought's  eternal  flight — they  have  no  being ; 
Nought  is  but  that  it  feels  itself  to  be. 

MAHMUD. 

What  meanest  thou  ?    thy  words   stream   like   a 

tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  my  brain — they  shake 
The  earth  on  which  I  stand,  and  hang  like  night 
vol.  i.  37 


578  HELLAS. 

On  Heaven  above  me.     What  ean  they  avail  ? 
They  cast  on  all  things,  surest,  brightest,  best, 
Doubt,  insecurity,  astonishment. 

AIIASUERUS. 

Mistake  me  not !     All  is  contained  in  each. 

Dodona's  forest  to  an  acorn's  cup 

Is  that  which  has  been  or  will  be,  to  that 

Which  is — the  absent  to  the  present.     Thought 

Alone,  and  its  quick  elements,  Will,  Passion, 

Reason,  Imagination,  cannot  die  ; 

They  are  what  that  which  they  regard  appears, 

The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 

All  that  it  hath  dominion  o'er, — worlds,  worms, 

Empires,  and  superstitions.     What  has  thought 

To  do  with  time,  or  place,  or  circumstance  ? 

Wouldst  thou  behold  the  future  ? — ask  and  have  ! 

Knock  and  it  shall  be  opened — look,  and  lo  ! 

The  coming  age  is  shadowed  on  the  past, 

As  on  a  glass. 

MAHMUD. 

Wild,  wilder  thoughts  convulse 
My  spirit — Did  not  Mahomet  the  Second 
Win  Stamboul? 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  wouldst  ask  that  giant  spirit 
The  written  fortunes  of  thy  house  and  faith. 
Thou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave  to  tell 
How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 


MAHMUD. 

Thy  words 
Have  power  on  me  !     I  see — 

AHASUERUS. 

What  nearest  thou  ? 


HELLAS.  579 


MAHMUD. 

A  far  whisper 

Terrible  silence. 

AHASUERUS. 

What  succeeds  ? 


The  sound 
As  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city, 
The  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire, 
The  roar  of  giant  cannon ; — the  earthquaking 
Fall  of  vast  bastions  and  precipitous  towers, 
The  shock  of  crags  shot  from  strange  engin'ry, 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed  hoofs, 
And  crash  of  brazen  mail,  as  of  the  wreck 
Of  adamantine  mountains — the  mad  blast 
Of  trumpets,  and  the  neigh  of  raging  steeds, 
And  shrieks  of  women  whose  thrill  jars  the  blood, 
And  one  sweet  laugh,  most  horrible  to  hear, 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked,  and  playing 
With  its  dead  mother's  breast ;  and  now  more  loud 
The  mingled  battle-cry — ha  !  hear  I  not 
'Ev  -ovTu  vikt).     Allah-illah- Allah  ! 

AHASUERUS. 

The  sulphureous  mist  is  raised — thou  seest — 

MAHMUD. 

A  chasm, 
As  of  two  mountains,  in  the  wall  of  Stamboul ; 
And  in  that  ghastly  breach  the  Islamites, 
Like  giants  on  the  ruins  of  a  world, 
Stand  in  the  light  of  sunrise.     In  the  dust 
Glimmers  a  kingless  diadem,  and  one 
Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 
The  stream  of  war.     Another,  proudly  clad 
In  golden  arms,  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 
Into  the  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 


580  HELLAS. 

Directs  the  torreni  of  thai  tide  of  mem, 
And  seems  —he  is  -Mahomet ! 

AHASUERUS. 

What  thou  see'st 
Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream ; 
A  dream  itself,  yet  less,  perhaps,  than  that 
Thou  calFst  reality.     Thou  mayst  behold 
Plow  cities,  on  which  empire  sleeps  enthroned, 
Bow  their  towered  crests  to  mutability. 
Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  the  height  thou  holdest, 
Thou  mayest  now  learn  how  the  full  tide  of  power 
Ebbs  to  its  depths. — Inheritor  of  glory, 
Conceived  in  darkness,  born  in  blood,  and  nourished 
With  tears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal  throes 
Of  that  whose  birth  was  but  the  same.     The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarnation 
Of  the  To-come ;  yet  wouldst  thou  commune  with 
That  portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere  thou 
Didst  start  for  this  brief  race  whose  crown  is  death; 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fervent  passion 
Which  called  it  from  the  uncreated  deep, 
Yon  cloud  of  war  with  its  tempestuous  phantoms 
Of  raging  death ;  and  draw  with  mighty  will 
The  imperial  shade  hither.  [Exit  Ahasuerus. 

MAHMUD. 

Approach ! 

PHANTOM. 

I  come 
Thence  whither  thou  must  go  !     The  grave  is  fitter 
To  take  the  living,  than  give  up  the  dead ; 
Yet  has  thy  faith  prevailed,  and  I  am  here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  power  which  fell 
When  I  arose,  like  shapeless  crags  and  clouds, 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and  voices 
Of  strange  lament  soothe  my  supreme  repose, 
AVailing  tor  glory  never  to  return. — 


HELLAS.  581 

A  later  Empire  nods  in  its  decay  ; 
The  autumn  of  a  greener  faith  is  come, 
And  wolfish  change,  like  winter,  howls  to  strip 
The  foliage  in  which  Fame,  the  eagle,  built 
Her  aerie,  while  Dominion  whelped  below. 
The  storm  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 
Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank  deep  expects 
Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil, 
Ruin  on  ruin  :  thou  art  slow,  my  son ; 
The  Anarchs  of  the  world  of  darkness  keep 
A  throne  for  thee,  round  which  thine  empire  lies 
Boundless  and  mute ;  and  for  thy  subjects  thou, 
Like  us,  shall  rule  the  ghosts  of  murdered  life, 
The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule  thee  now — 
Mutinous  passions  and  conflicting  fears, 
And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust  and  die  ! 
Stript  of  their  mortal  strength,  as  thou  of  thine. 
Islam  must  fall,  but  we  will  reign  together 
Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death  : — 
And  if  the  trunk  be  dry,  yet  shall  the  seed 
Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that 
Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.     Woe  !  woe  ! 
To  the  weak  people  tangled  in  the  grasp 
Of  its  last  spasms. 

MAHMTTD. 

Spirit,  woe  to  all ! 
Woe  to  the  wronged  and  the  avenger !     Woe 
To  the  destroyer,  woe  to  the  destroyed ! 
Woe  to  the  dupe,  and  woe  to  the  deceiver ! 
Woe  to  the  oppressed,  and  woe  to  the  oppressor ! 
Woe  both  to  those  that  suifer  and  infiict; 
Those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die  !     But  say, 
Imperial  shadow  of  the  thing  I  am, 
When,  how,  by  whom,  Destruction  must  accomplish 
Her  consummation? 

PH  \M'(-M. 

Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 


582  BELLAS. 

Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death, 

When  he  shall  fall  upon  whose  ripe  grey  hairs 

Sit  care,  and  sorrow,  and  infirmity — 

The  weight  which  Crime,  whose  wings  are  plumed 

with  years, 
Leaves  in  his  flight  from  ravaged  heart  to  heart 
Over  the  heads  of  men,  under  which  burthen 
They  bow  themselves  unto  the  grave  :  fond  wretch  ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  talks  of  years 
To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  renewed 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory !  victory  ! 
[  The  Phantom  vanishes. 

MAHMUD. 

What  sound  of  the  importunate  earth  has  broken 
My  mighty  trance  ? 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory ! 


Weak  lightning  before  darkness !  poor  faint  smile 
Of  dying  Islam !  Voice  which  art  the  response 
Of  hollow  weakness  !     Do  I  wake  and  live  ? 
Were    there    such   things  ?    or   may  the    unquiet 

brain, 
Vexed  by  the  wise  mad  talk  of  the  old  Jew, 
Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its  fear  ? 
It  matters  not ! — for  naught  we  see  or  dream, 
Possess,  or  lose,  or  grasp  at,  can  be  worth 
More  than  it  gives  or  teaches.     Come  what  may, 
The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 
As  they  were,  to  whom  once  this  present  hour, 
This  gloomy  crag  of  time  to  which  I  cling, 
Seemed  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 
Never  to  be  attained. — I  must  rebuke 


HELLAS.  583 

This  drunkenness  of  triumph  ere  it  die, 
Aud  dying,  bring  despair. — Victory  ! — poor  slaves ! 

[Exit  Mahmud. 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Shout  in  the  jubilee  of  death !     The  Greeks 

Are  as  a  brood  of  lions  in  the  net, 

Round  which  the  kingly  hunters  of  the  earth 

Stand  smiling.     Anarchs,  ye  whose  daily  food 

Are  curses,  groans,  and  gold,  the  fruit  of  death, 

From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world, 

Come,  feast !   the  board  groans  with  the  flesh  of 

men — 
The  cup  is  foaming  with  a  nation's  blood, 
Famine  and  Thirst  await :  eat,  drink,  and  die  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream, 
Salutes  the  risen  sun,  pursues  the  flying  day ! 

I  saw  her  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream, 
Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night, 
Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms  pavilioned 

lay 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 

Who  shall  impede  her  flight  ? 
Who  rob  her  of  her  prey  ? 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  !     Russia's  famished  eagles 
Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's  light. 
Impale  the  remnant  of  the  Greeks  !  despoil ! 
Violate  !  make  their  flesh  cheaper  than  dust! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Thou  voice  which  art 
The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendour  hid  ! 

Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 
Of  monarchy,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 

When  desolation  flashes  o'er  a  world  destroyed. 


584  TI  ELLAS. 

Oh  bear  me  to  those  isles  of  jagged  cloud 

Which   float   like    mountains   on    the    earth- 
quakes, 'mid 
The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning. 
Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 
Of  solid  tempest,  whose  black  pyramid, 
Riven,  overhangs  the  founts  intensely  brighten- 
ing 
Of  those  dawn-tinted  deluges  of  fire 
Before  their  waves  expire, 
When  heaven  and  earth  are  light,  and  only  light 
In  the  thunder-night ! 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory!  victory!     Austria,  Russia,  England, 
And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow,  France, 
Cry  peace,  and  that  means  death  when  monarchs 

speak. 
Ho,    there !    bring    torches,    sharpen    those    red 

stakes ! 
These  chains  are  light,  fitter  for  slaves  and  poi- 
soners 
Than   Greeks.      Kill !    plunder  !    burn  !    let  none 
remain. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Alas  for  Liberty  ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfulfilling  years, 
Or  fate,  can  quell  the  free ; 
Alas  for  Virtue  !  when 
Torments,  or  contumely,  or  the  sneers 
Of  erring  judging  men 
Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides. 
Alas !    if  Love,  whose   smile   makes  this  obscure 
world  splendid, 
Can  change,  with  its  false  times  and  tides, 
Like  hope  and  terror — 
Alas  for  Love  ! 
And  Truth,  who  wanderest  lone  and  unbefriended, 


HELLAS.  585 

If  thou  canst  veil  thy  lie-consuming  mirror 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Error. 
Alas  for  thee  !     Image  of  the  Above. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Repulse,  -with  plumes  from  conquest  torn, 

Led  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits  of  the  morn 

Through  many  an  hostile  Anarchy  ! 
At  length  they  wept  aloud  and  cried,  "  The  sea ! 
the  sea  ! " 
Through  exile,  persecution,  and  despair, 
Rome  was,  and  young  Atlantis  shall  become 
The  wonder,  or  the  terror,  or  the  tomb 
Of  all  whose  step  wakes  power  lulled  in  her  savage 
lair: 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child, 

Whose  fairest  thoughts  and  limbs  were  built 
To  woman's  growth,  by  dreams  so  mild 
She  knew  not  pain  or  guilt ; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush  !  and  Empire,  tremble, 
When  ye  desert  the  free  ! 
If  Greece  must  be 
A  wreck,  yet  shall  its  fragments  reassemble, 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime, 
To  Amphionic  music,  on  some  Cape  sublime, 
Which  frowns  above  the  idle  foam  of  Time. 

.SEMICHORUS   I. 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have  made  ; 

Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they  claim ; 
Be  the  fortune  of  our  fierce  oppressors  weighed 

With  our  ruin,  our  resistance,  and  our  name ! 

SK.MIC'HORUS   II. 

Our  dead  shall  be  the  seed  of  their  decay; 

Our  survivors  be  the  shadows  of  their  pride, 
Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away — 

Their  dishonour  a  remembrance  to  abide  ! 


586 


VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory!  Victory!     The  bought  Briton  sends 

The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite. 

Now  shall  the  blazon  of  the  cross  be  veiled, 

And  British  skill  directing  Othman  might, 

Thunder-strike  rebel  victory.     O  keep  holy 

This  jubilee  of  unrevenged  blood  ! 

Kill !  crush !  despoil !     Let  not  a  Greek  escape  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  East 

On  the  noon  of  time  : 
The  death-birds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hungry  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand, 
And  follow  Love's  folding  star  ! 

To  the  Evening  land  ! 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn 
With  the  sunset's  fire  : 
The  weak  day  is  dead, 
But  the  night  is  not  born  ; 
And,    like    loveliness   panting   with   wild 
desire, 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  delight, 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  night, 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with  light 
Fast-flashing,  soft,  and  bright. 
Thou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the  free  ! 

Guide  us  far,  far  away, 
To  climes  where  now,  veiled  by  the  ardour  of  day, 
Thou  art  hidden 
From  waves  on  which  weary  noon 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  kingless  continents,  sinless  as  Eden, 
Around  mountains  and  islands  inviolably 
Prankt  on  the  sapphire  sea. 


HELLAS.  587 

SEMICHOKUS   I. 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope, 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream, 
What  Paradise  islands  of  glory  gleam 

Beneath  Heaven's  cope. 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  by — 
The  sound  of  their  oceans,  the  light  of  their  sky, 
The  music  and  fragrance  their  solitudes  breathe, 
Burst  like  morning  on  dreams,  or  like  Heaven  on 
death, 
Through  the  walls  of  our  prison  ; 
And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen  ! 

CHORUS. 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 
Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  its  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free : 


588  HELLAft. 

Although  a  subtler  sphinx  renew 
Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeathe,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 

But  votive  tears,  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


NOTES. 

P.  553,  1.  13. 

The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 

Milax  was  the  centre  of  the  resistance  of  the  Lombard 
league  against  the  Austrian  tyrant.  Frederick  Barbarossa 
burnt  the  city  to  the  ground,  but  liberty  lived  in  its  ashes, 
and  it  rose  like  an  exhalation  from  its  ruin. — See  Sism<  >x- 
di's  "  Histoires  des  Republiques  Italiennes"  a  book  which 
has  done  much  towards  awakening  the  Italians  to  an 
imitation  of  their  great  ancestors. 

P.  558, 1.  4. 


The  popular  notions  of  Christianity  are  represented  in 
this  chorus  as  true  in  their  relation  to  the  worship  they 
superseded,  and  that  which  in  all  probability  they  will 
supersede,  without  considering  their  merits  in  a  relation 
more  universal.  The  first  stanza  contrasts  the  immortal- 
ity of  the  living  and  thinking  beings  which  inhabit  the 
planets,  and,  to  use  a  common  and  inadequate  phrase, 
clothe  themselves  in  matter,  with  the  transience  of  the 
noblest  manifestations  of  the  external  world. 

The  concluding  verses  indicate  a  progressive  state  of 
more  or  less  exalted  existence,  according  to  the  degree  of 
perfection  which  every  distinct  intelligence  may  have  at- 
tained. Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  1  mean  to  dogmatize 
upon  a  subject  concerning  which  all  men  are  equally 
ignorant,  or  that  I  think  the  Gordian  knot  of  the  origin  of 
evil  can  be  disentangled  by  that  or  any  similar  assertions. 
The  received  hypothesis  of  a  Being  resembling  men  in  the 
moral  attributes  of  his  nature,  having  called  us  out  of  non- 
existence, and  after  inflicting  on  us  the  misery  of  the 
commission  of  error,  should  superadd  that  of  the  pun- 
ishment and  the  privations  consequent  upon  it,  still  would 
remain  inexplicable  and  incredible.  That  there  is  a  true 
solution  of  the  riddle,  and  that  in  our  present  state  the 
solution  is  unattainable  by  us,  are   propositions  which 


& 


maybe  regarded  as  equally  certain ;  meanwhile  as  it  is 


590  NOTES    ON    IIELLAS. 

the  province  of  the  poet  to  attach  himself  to  those  ideas 
which  exalt  and  ennoble  humanity,  let  him  be  permitted 
to  have  conjectured  the  condition  of  that  futurity  towards 
which  we  are  all  impelled  by  an  inextinguishable  thirst 
for  immortality.  Until  better  arguments  can  be  produced 
than  sophisms  which  disgrace  the  cause,  this  desire  itself 
must  remain  the  strongest  and  the  only  presumption  that 
eternity  is  the  inheritance  of  every  thinking  being. 


P.  559, 1.  21. 
No  hoary  priests  after  that  Patriarch. 

The  Gi*eek  Patriarch,  after  having  been  compelled  to 
fulminate  an  anathema  against  the  insurgents,  was  put  to 
death  by  the  Turks. 

Fortunately  the  Greeks  have  been  taught  that  they 
cannot  buy  security  by  degradation,  and  the  Turks, 
though  equally  cruel,  are  less  cunning  than  the  smooth- 
faced tyrants  of  Europe. 

As  to  the  anathema,  his  Holiness  might  as  well  have 
thrown  his  mitre  at  Mount  Athos  for  any  effect  that  it 
produced.  The  chiefs  of  the  Greeks  are  almost  all  men 
of  comprehension  and  enlightened  views  on  religion  and 
politics. 

P.  570,  1.  9. 

The  freeman  of  a  western  poet  chief 

A  Greek  who  had  been  Lord  Byron's  servant  com- 
mands the  insurgents  in  Attica.  This  Greek,  Lord  Byron 
informs  me,  though  a  poet  and  an  enthusiastic  patriot, 
gave  him  rather  the  idea  of  a  timid  and  unenterprising 
person.  It  appears  that  circumstances  make  men  what 
they  are,  and  that  we  all  contain  the  germ  of  a  degree  of 
degradation  or  greatness,  whose  connection  with  oui 
character  is  determined  by  events. 


P.  571, 1.  13. 

The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from  the  West. 

It  is  reported  that  this  Messiah  had  arrived  at  a  seaport 
near  Lacedemon  in  an  American  brig.  The  association 
of  names  and  ideas  is  irresistibly  ludicrous,  but  the  prev- 
alence of  such  a  rumour  strongly  marks  the  state  of  popu- 
lar enthusiasm  in  Greece. 


NOTES   ON    HELLAS.  591 


P.  579,  1.  2. 

The  sound 
As  of  the  assazdt  of  an  imperial  city. 

For  the  vision  of  Mahmud  of  the  taking  of  Constanti- 
nople in  1445,  see  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  vol.  xii.  p.  223. 

The  manner  of  the  invocation  of  the  spirit  of  Mahomet 
the  Second  will  be  censured  as  overdrawn.  I  could 
easily  have  made  the  Jew  a  regular  conjurer,  and  the 
Phantom  an  ordinary  ghost.  I  have  preferred  to  repre- 
sent the  Jew  as  disclaiming  all  pretension,  or  even  belief, 
in  supernatural  agency,  and  as  tempting  Mahmud  to  that 
state  of  mind  in  which  ideas  may  be  supposed  to  assume 
the  force  of  sensation,  through  the  confusion  of  thought, 
with  the  objects  of  thought,  and  excess  of  passion  ani- 
mating the  creations  of  the  imagination. 

It  is  a  sort  of  natural  magic,  susceptible  of  being  exer- 
cised in  a  degree  by  any  one  who  should  have  made 
himself  master  of  the  secret  associations  of  another's 
thoughts. 

P.  587,  1.  11. 


The  final  chorus  is  indistinct  and  obscure  as  the  event 
of  the  living  drama  whose  arrival  it  foretells. 

Prophecies  of  war3,  and  rumours  of  wars,  &c,  may 
safely  be  made  by  poet  or  prophet  in  any  age ;  but  to 
anticipate,  however  darkly,  a  period  of  regeneration  and 
happiness,  is  a  more  hazardous  exercise  of  the  faculty 
which  bards  possess  or  feign.  It  will  remind  the  reader, 
"magno  nee  proximus  intervallo,"  of  Isaiah  and  Virgil, 
whose  ardent  spirits,  overleaping  the  actual  reign  of  evil 
which  we  endure  and  bewail,  already  saw  the  possible 
and  perhaps  approaching  state  of  society  in  which  the 
"lion  shall  lie  down  with,  the  lamb,"  and  "  omnis  feret 
omnia  tellus."  Let  these  great  names  be  my  authority 
and  excuse. 

P.  588,  1.  9. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose. 

Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the  deities  of  a  real  or 
imaginary  state  of  innocence  and  happiness.  All  those 
u-ko  fell,  or  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Asia,  and  Egypt;  the  One, 


irho  rose,  or  Jesus  Christ,  at  whose  appearance  the  idols 
of  the  Pagan  world  were  amerced  of  their  worship;  and 
the  many  unsubdued,  or  the  monstrous  objects  of  the  idol- 
atry of  China,  India,  the  Antarctic  island's,  and  the  native 
tribes  of  America,  certaiidy  have  reigned  over  the  under- 
standings of  men  in  conjunction  or  in  succession,  during 
periods  in  which  all  we  know  of  evil  has  been  in  a  state 
of  portentous,  and,  until  the  revival  of  learning  and  the 
arts,  perpetual  by  increasing  activity.  The  Grecian  Gods 
seem  indeed  to  have  been  personally  more  innocent, 
although  it  cannot  be  said  that,  as  far  as  temperance  and 
chastity  are  concerned,  they  gave  so  edifying  an  example 
as  their  successor.  The  sublime  human  character  of 
Jesus  Christ  was  deformed  by  an  imputed  identification 
with  a  power,  who  tempted,  betrayed,  and  punished  the 
innocent  beings  who  were  called  into  existence  by  his 
sole  will;  and  for  the  period  of  a  thousand  years',  the 
spirit  of  this  most  just,  wise,  and  benevolent  of  men,  has 
been  propitiated  with  myriads  of  hecatombs  of  those 
who  approached  the  nearest  to  his  innocence  and  wisdom, 
sacrificed  under  every  aggravation  of  atrocity  and  variety 
of  torture.  The  horrors  of  the  Mexican,  the  Peruvian, 
and  the  Indian  superstitions  are  well  known. 


END    OF     VOLUME     I. 


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